


Tumblr Prompts (2020)

by gingerteaandsympathy



Category: Broadchurch, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Teninch, Tumblr Prompt, more characters and pairings to be added as necessary, oneshots of all sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 117,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: Prompt fills from Tumblr, most of which have the sole aim of Rose Tyler getting the kisses she deserves.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Rose Tyler, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Rose Tyler, Eighth Doctor/Charley Pollard/Rose Tyler, Eighth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler, Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler/Charley Pollard, Rose Tyler/Martin Lamb, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, The Doctor (Doctor Who)/Rose Tyler, Twelfth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 403
Kudos: 303





	1. Hooked On A Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by: Darthtella  
> Prompt: "I've come to the recent realisation that the Song Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Suede and Björn Skifs is the *perfect* Tentoo/Rose song. So perhaps Tentoo attempting Karaoke for a fic idea?"  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

Tonight’s choice of venue was, of course, laughably dim and smokey, almost a parody of the name “pub.” But then, the Doctor always preferred these sorts of places. Holes-in-walls, so to speak. Rose looked around, taking it all in—the exposed brick everywhere, worn smooth by bodies routinely leaning against walls for lack of proper seating; the lights that somehow managed to be bright and dim at the same time, made up of piercing technicolor spotlights and not much else; the hum of crowd noise under the tinny sound of karaoke music. And there was the stage—cramped and humble, only a few inches off the floor, and currently occupied by a very, very drunk bloke.

Not her very, very drunk bloke. No, he was safely at her side, holding some sort of very fruity beverage and beaming up at the stage like he was at a Bruce Springsteen show. The daft alien. She tightened her arm around his waist and, either in response to her touch or as consequence of his tipsiness, the Doctor’s cheek dropped to her head. The corner of his frames poked into her hair as he nuzzled her, humming along with the tune of “Hungry Heart.”

She couldn’t help but giggle when she attempted to shift, and his head remained firmly planted on hers. “Doctor,” she spoke, loud enough to be heard over the music. “ _Doctor._ ”

“Hm?” he answered into her hair. The rumble traveled through her skull and skittered down her spine, and she tightened her hands even more, fingers digging into his jacket.

“Doing alright?”

He nodded and sighed, mussing her fringe. “Perfect.” She bit back another giggle as he continued, “I’ve never understood this song. How can one’s heart be hungry? I know I’m a bit new to the single-heart business, but I’ve never felt any hunger pangs.”

She twisted in his grasp, forcing him to release her so she could look up at him. “Never?” she asked, eyes crinkling with amusement at his slightly slack-jawed gaze. “Never even got a bit peckish?”

He shook his head, eyes sliding shut behind his specs. “Nope,” he pronounced. “It’s more like—” And then, his eyes popped open. He slammed down his pineapple-banana-nonsense-drink and gasped. “Oh, Rose! That’s brilliant! I can tell you _just_ how—hold on a ‘mo—don’t _move,_ stay _right there,_ alright?” And then, he was off like a shot— _if_ bullets had the tendency to wobble drunkenly in their chosen direction. She watched him with narrowed eyes, amused at his vague attempts at damage control when he bumped into a young couple dancing. “Sorry, boys!” he cried, his voice carrying over the filler music that played between people’s songs. “I’m in love!” The two blokes looked at him like he was mad, but the Doctor had careened onwards before they got the chance to say much.

One of them called after him: “Congratulations?” She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the laughter.

And that was about when she lost sight of him. But she suspected she knew where he’d crop up when she _did_ see him again.

The next number was performed by a trio of absolutely _smashed_ uni students who gave Madonna the deference she was due, fingers clasped in an ecstatic parody of something rather… _like a prayer_. Rose’s grin only grew, knowing for certain that the Doctor was somewhere dancing like mad. But she didn’t have to wait long to spot him as he dashed up onto the stage at the end of the girls’ number, all but shooing them off and back into the crowd. “Sorry, sorry,” she could make out him muttering, his voice faint in the mic. “Very important. I’ve got to—thanks, ladies—you understand—” The crowd seemed even more amused by his antics than Rose was, and a bright-eyed, “Oh, thank you! This one’s for Rose,” was all he could get out before the crowd (which was most definitely lush) began cheering.

She decided to make her way closer to the stage. Partly to see what would undoubtedly be a top-shelf performance closer up, and partly to catch him if he tumbled off the bloody stage. She brought the Doctor’s sugary cocktail with her, sipping it.

It wasn’t that bad, actually.

The cheers only increased as suddenly, nonsense-words roared through the speakers.

**_OOGA-CHAKA OOGA-OOGA, OOGA-CHAKA OOGA-OOGA_ **

And then, the Doctor’s voice rather tunefully—if _very_ loosely—started to sing the opening lyrics of “Hooked on a Feeling.”

“ _I can't stop this feeling deep inside of me… Girl, you just don't realize what you do to me…_ ”

He was no Blue Swede, but Rose couldn’t help being impressed at the passion he brought to his impromptu performance. The Doctor gripped the microphone stand tightly in his fists, as if it grounded him and he might otherwise float up into the air. And his whole body swayed and bounced, the current of energy that always moved him building as he sang, “ _When you hold me in your arms so tight, you let me know everything's all right_.” She tried to suppress her smile, but she couldn’t quite manage, bursting forth in a beam as the entire crowd joined him in singing, “ _I’m… hooked on a feeling, I’m high on believing that you’re in love with me!_ ”

He always looked down at her from his sizeable height, but the added extra foot of the stage and the dim light and—yes, alright, the tipsiness made his gaze even more open, even more impossibly adoring, and she felt a blush crawling up her cheeks before she could stop it. “You’re mad,” she mouthed up at the stage.

“Mad for _you_ ,” he declared, directly into the microphone as the instrumental blared in the background. She blushed even harder, still unused to this man who was so open with his feelings—open enough to announce them to an entire pub full of people! Another roar went up from the crowd at his declaration, and a few people around her started glancing her way, sussing out that _she_ was the Rose to which this song was apparently dedicated. And then he made it worse, his voice crooning out, “ _All the good love when we're all alone. Keep it up, girl, yeah, you turn me on, I’m… hooked on a feeling!_ ”

She shook her head, laughing. Not a bad singer, this mad bloke of hers.

 _Not a bad life,_ she mused, standing there in a grubby karaoke bar, with a man whose heart she undoubtedly held in her hands singing her a drunken love song. _Not bad at all._


	2. The Snake And The Big Bad Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Hello! I adore your Rose/Crowley stuff! As for a prompt, what if Rose’s dimension cannon broke during a jump and she mistakes Crowley for the Doctor because she hears him yelling about going to Alpha Centauri or something along those lines."  
> Pairing: Rose x Crowley (sort of) and Crowley x Aziraphale (also sort of)

Her landing is as sudden as always. One second, she is blessedly bodiless, atoms as yet uncomposed—the next, she is bursting into being. It’s a shock to her nervous system, the sudden state of _existence._ She has to blink a few times, rapidly, before she can see properly. But when her eyes finally adjust, she receives an even sharper shock than the one that courses through her limbs.

London. Looks about the right time, except the streets are unnaturally clean. Posh area. Possibly the oddest car she’s ever seen, parked crookedly up on a kerb across the street, and—and that _voice._ She recognizes it immediately. It’s an accent she hears in her sleep, a particular intonation and mania that makes her feel, all at once, like she has come home. She begins to hurry across the road, in the direction of the voice.

“—it was my fault, but… we can run away together!”

Her heart skips in her chest, and she has to stop herself from calling out. The thought strikes like a bullet: Is he taking on someone new? But then, it _must_ be him…

She suspects—she’s suspected before—she’s been wrong so, _so_ many times. But she thinks she’s spotted him now; she recognizes his gait and his hair, though it’s… ginger? Once again, her pulse spikes. The man—the Doctor’s?—hands gesture entreatingly at a bloke all in beige as he continues a steady babble. “Alpha Centauri!” he announces.

 _It’s him,_ her heart hammers. He’s changed his clothes and his hair, but it’s him. He’s moving on right before her eyes, but it’s _him._

“Lots of spare planets up there! Nobody’d even notice us!”

So, he’s running. Of _course_ he’s running. It’s what he does. She feels her own feet speed up as she jumps up onto the walkway, and she’s calling to him before she can stop herself. “Doctor!”

The man in beige is speaking now, his voice fussy and his posture closed. “—being ridiculous. Look, I’m quite sure—”

“ _Doctor_!”

She manages to stop herself just short of colliding with him— _with the Doctor,_ her body thrums, _the Doctor, the Doctor, he’s here, you’ve found him!_ But he isn’t turning. He doesn’t hear her, or he doesn’t recognize her voice, or he’s ignoring her, because his body remains firmly turned away from her, his focus entirely on the man in beige. For a moment, her horror—her impetuosity—stalls her breath in her lungs.

What if he doesn’t remember her? What if he’s regenerated again and he doesn’t want her? What if, she swallows, this is like that other time—when she was here, and yet _not there_ , trapped in a world without being on it. That had been the most terrifying jump of all, and it was only through sheer dumb luck that she’d found a foothold—a psychic—and established a link.

She’s been a ghost before; she doesn’t much fancy it.

“Doctor,” she says breathlessly, her hand lifting to touch his back, to test—

“Crowley,” the other man says, “I believe that woman is speaking to you.”

Her eyes dart around the Doctor’s waist, eyeing the blonde bloke. He looks properly confused, wringing his own hands and blinking rapidly. But he can _see_ her, and that’s the important thing. He can see her, so she’s _here_ , and the Doctor is here—

When he turns, she can’t help the eager way her body leans toward him. Because it _is_ him. His face is the same, though a bit tanner. His lips, his chin, his cheekbones, his ears… She could rattle off a list of features, and they’d all confirm the evidence of her heart: it’s the Doctor. _Her_ Doctor.

Staring at her blankly.

Well, she assumes he’s staring blankly; she can’t actually tell through his dark sunglasses. So, there’s one bit of evidence hidden from her. His eyes.

“Doctor?”

His brows furrow. “Not since the turn of the century. Or the century before that, rather.” He glances back at the blonde man, his lips forming a pout. “Medicine doesn’t suit me.”

“I disagree wholeheartedly, my dear,” the other man interjects. “You were splendid with the leeches, if I do say so myself. Very creative.”

At that, the Doctor’s face relaxes into something almost but not quite like a smile. “Thanks, Angel.” He turns back to Rose, his face once again devoid of recognition.

Rose blinks. “You’re—but you look—” Her thoughts race, bouncing around her cluttered and aching head. She feels as if she’s going to be sick, and can’t quite tell if it’s the jumping sickness or if it’s just the fear that’s begun churning in her gut. _Not him, not him,_ her mind chants in building horror. “So, you _aren’t_ him?”

“Not who, love?” the man— _not the Doctor_ —asks in idle curiosity.

“The Doctor,” she swallows convulsively, hurriedly blinking the tears that seem to be gathering. She takes a deep inhale through her nose, hoping to stop the dam from bursting. But she can’t help adding, “the Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey.”

At that, the man’s brows furrow once more. “Gallifrey. I haven’t heard that name in quite a long time...”

Hope flares, sudden and bright. “Yes! You recognize it? It’s—it’s a red planet, or orange? It’s got two suns, I think, and it’s—it’s in the constellation… Cast—Castle? Caster…?” She stomps her foot, wishing the Doctor had been more forthcoming about his home planet in the past. But the man before her— _maybe_ the Doctor—nods in understanding.

“Kasterborous, yes. But how do _you_ know that?”

Rose’s lip trembles, and she bites it hard. She _will not_ cry. “You _told_ me,” she insists. “When I traveled with you, on the TARDIS. Doctor, please—” and then her voice really does break. “Tell me you remember.”

He looks down at her, his whole body tight as if unsure what to do or say. But the longer she stands there, looking up into that achingly familiar face and _willing_ him to know her, the more his shoulders seem to relax until he looks… almost defeated. “I’ve had a few names in my life. Doctor from the planet Gallifrey is not one of them.” His hand lifts from his side, as if starting to reach for her. “I’m sorry.”

She feels defeat as a physical weight, stooping her shoulders and sapping her of all the adrenaline that normally kept her running. “But I’ve come so far.”

The other man—Angel, the Not-Doctor had called him—approached the two of them hesitantly, seemingly unsure of what he was walking into. “What’s your name, Miss…?”

“I shouldn’t tell you,” she chokes out. “I’m not from here.”

“Not from London?” The man called Angel frowns, disbelieving. 

The Not-Doctor adds, “Could’ve fooled me.”

It’s almost enough to coax a little smile from her, and her lips twitch with the effort. “What, does the accent give me away?”

His own face seems reluctant to smile, but unable to stop itself. It’s the same one she knows—the one the Doctor always reserved for her. He says, “No, it was actually the complete lack of regard for traffic laws.”

At that, she finally forces a trembling little smile. “Yes, well, when I see what I want, I go for it.” She tries not to lean into him, but he even _smells_ the same—like very old rooms with open windows, and like ozone, and like time. “No matter what.”

The Not-Doctor is still grinning at her, just a bit, just faintly. “I can see that.” There’s something devilish there, in the silly-sharpness of his mouth, and she’s leaning even closer before she can stop herself. She wonders if he’s feeling it, the same pull, the sense of familiarity. It’s that sense of kinship in her stomach that pulls her the rest of the way, up onto her toes, her arms fluttering up to balance on his shoulders.

Rose catches a brief flicker of surprise before she drops the kiss, feather-light and soft, on his familiarly-pouted bottom lip. _He even tastes the same,_ something in her brain registers. It’s uncanny, finding this sweetness where it doesn’t belong. Like a ripe apple in a barren desert. Her lips stick just a bit to his, her skin unwilling to give him up. And the shoulders under her hands flex and release, just minutely. Just enough to remind her—

Silently, she goes flat-footed, falling softly away from his face. “Sorry,” she breathes into the widening space. “I had to try.”

He looks shell-shocked, his mouth pursed in a little ‘o’ and his hands frozen in mid-air, as if he’d been about to reach for her. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

At that, her spine straightens. “I will.” Her mission comes flooding back to her, and she feels foolish for all her emotional outpouring. This man, whoever he may be, is _not_ the Doctor. Which means she has to keep looking. “And if you ever meet a man called the Doctor from the planet Gallifrey, tell him this—tell him not to be afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”

“Is that supposed to be you?” the Not-Doctor chuckles.

She grins, a big expression full of teeth and vibrancy, but she doesn’t answer. “That’s for him to know and you to find out. Thank you for all your help…”

“Crowley.”

Rose nods. It aches, like a final nail drummed into a coffin, but it’s the confirmation she needs. He’s not the Doctor; all of her wishing and wanting cannot make him so. “Crowley,” she repeats. She nods at the other man. “Angel.”

He looks taken aback, but offers a tentative smile. “Good luck…”

And with that, Rose is backing away. With each inch created between her and the Not-Doc— _Crowley_ , the familiar, enveloping calmness of his body, of his scent and his shape and his wisp of a smile, all begin to fade and she’s left with the cold reality of jumping. Yet again. Her brave smile falters, and she finds her eyelashes fluttering again, a desperate attempt to keep the tears from escaping.

When she’s a safe distance away, she presses the little button on her watch that sends a signal—nothing but a faint call out into a void, which will hopefully be heard by the people on the other side. She waits for the familiar feeling, the drain on her corporeal body. All these months and she hasn’t worked out what to call it…

It suddenly occurs to her. “Crowley,” she says, her voice slightly raised to be heard across the small distance. “How do _you_ know about Gallifrey?”

She can still make out his expression—enough to tell that he’s chuckling. He glances over his shoulder at the man called Angel, and then calls to her, “A friend of mine made it!”

_What?_

_He knows about… oh, what’s he called? Rassi_ —

And then, Rose Tyler… well, for lack of a better word, she discorporates.


	3. Lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Tentoo/Rose honeymoon"  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

Packing light was a bit more difficult than it used to be.

For starters, there was the fact that the Doctor needed to actually _change clothes_ now and then _._ That had been quite an adjustment, though an amusing one; it turned out that the half-Time Lord was a bit of a fashionista, partial to strange get-ups and unexpected costume changes. He claimed he’d always been this way, citing different lives with edible accessories and technicolor waistcoats. And Rose rode out his changing clothes much as she rode out his changing moods: with a smile and a laugh and, occasionally, a pinch on the bum.

And then, there was the small matter of their vagabond lifestyle. Packing so as to be prepared for anything was almost a matter of course after a few years touring “Pete’s World”—now to be called “Their World”—in an old van. Rose rarely went anywhere without an umbrella and a winter’s coat, no matter the forecast. 

Even on their wedding day, she reflected as they disembarked from one airship and trundled up onto another, she’d worn flat shoes—plimsolls, as a matter of fact, in case they did any running. (And as a matter of fact, they _had_. Out of the freezing November rain. A fond smile slipped over her face as she remembered the Doctor’s dramatic exclamations regarding his now-dripping hair. His fussing had calmed as she stripped out of her voluminous skirts, revealing a drier—and substantially shorter—hemline below.)

She tightened her fingers around his, warmed by the way his whole body attuned to hers, shifting closer to her almost involuntarily. “Alright?” he inquired, not breaking her grip even as they shuffled through the narrow aisle to their assigned seats.

Rose nodded, offering him her sweetest—and also perhaps sleepiest—smile. “More than.”

This was different, though. There would be no vagabonding on this trip. No people in need of saving, or creepy old caves in need of exploring. There was an almost zero percent chance of governmental collapse while they visited the Canary Islands. She’d checked. She’d packed string bikinis and basically nothing else, because this was _their honeymoon_ and nothing was going to go wrong.

“Brilliant.” His answering smile was all the warmth she needed. Her limbs grew heavy as they settled in and waited for the next leg of their journey to begin. She was out cold before the pilot announced takeoff.

Which was, all things considered, rather lucky. Or unlucky, depending.

-

She was dreadfully groggy as they shambled, zombie-like through security. This was the Doctor’s least favorite part—the bit where he got antsy about details like paperwork and how much liquid they were carrying and whether or not they’d be allowed into this country if, in another universe and approximately five hundred years ago, he’d accidentally insulted their monarch. Normally she tried to be in top form, to manage all the details and ease his anxiety, but it had just been such a long few days leading up to the wedding, and then she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, what with her new husband’s wandering hands…

Safe to say, that hand of his no longer “gave her the creeps.”

She yawned, and he reached down to twine her fingers with his. “Now, Rose,” he began casually—too casually, “the important thing is that we’re together, right?”

Immediately, her spine stiffened. “What did you do?”

When the indignant sputtering began, she _knew_ they were in trouble. “I—what do you mean ‘ _do_ ’? Why’d you—how come you say it like that—like ‘ _do_ ,’ like ‘ _doom._ ’ I haven’t _done_ any— _anything_ whatsoever!” He hesitated, and she waited for him to explain their predicament (because _surely_ there was a predicament). But instead, he tilted his head and said, “That is, I’ve _done_ lots of things. Plenty of good things, I think that bears saying. Sensible things, even. Grand things. Occasionally, _great_ things! So, when I tell you—”

But of course, he didn’t get to tell her anything, because at that moment, a very bored and rather beautiful border agent summoned them to the counter, dully asking them in heavily-accented English, “What brings you to Moscow?”

Rose’s eyes widened, and she turned fully to face the Doctor. _Moscow._ They were in _Russia_. “Well,” she began with a slightly slipping smile. “I’m not rightly sure what brings us to Moscow. Maybe you should ask my _husband._ ”

-

Neither of them spoke fluent Russian; Rose spoke none at all. And neither of them could parse the Cyrillic alphabet, despite the Doctor’s initial claims to the contrary. It turns out, his timeship had helped him out in that department a _bit_ more than he let on.

Rose had often missed the TARDIS and her brilliant bit of mind-meddling that made the pair of them omni-lingual, but never more than she did now.

One thing they did know was Pete Tyler’s phone number, and how to place an international call. Which, all things considered, was rather lucky.

-

Someone from the British consulate picked them up. His name was Ian, and he was a nice enough bloke. A bit irritated to have been roused from bed, of course, given the fact that it was eleven thirty at night and, Rose discovered, he had a newborn. But he responded to the Doctor’s smalltalk—such as it was—with friendly enough grunts and hums, and the occasional monosyllabic inquiry for additional information. He dropped them off at what _appeared_ to be a dimly lit bed and breakfast on the very, _very_ outskirts of civilization. (“Sorry, it’s the best I could do on short notice,” Pete explained via text. “Friend of a friend. Ask for Vera.”)

Rose was just grateful to be somewhere with a heater. The backseat of Ian’s car had been _freezing,_ cold sweat and melted snow sticking her Canary Islands-ready clothing to her slightly-shivering limbs. But once she and the Doctor and their pitifully light suitcases had been trundled inside, she began warming up. And, to her chagrin, she was _wide awake._

“Well,” she shrugged, tossing open her suitcases and rifling around for her warmest spring-weight sweatshirt, “at least we’re not in prison.” She almost sounded cheerful, except for the mania in her voice. It was that touch of tension that kept the Doctor sitting on their narrow double bed, eyeing her from across her luggage. “I’m _always_ prepared for something like this, but of course, the _one time_ —” She let her semi-cheerful griping fade as she unpacked her toiletries. “Do you want to shower first, or shall I?”

The Doctor’s already slouching posture drooped even further, and Rose felt a rush of sympathy. It wasn’t as if he’d piloted their dirigible himself. He’d landed them in much worse scrapes before; this barely even ranked, honestly. And they’d both been so _tired_ , she reasoned.

“Or we could shower together?” She tried to contain her smile as her new husband immediately straightened, his eyes blinking behind his specs. With a little roll of her shoulder, she gestured for him to follow her into their little lavatory.

Their _very_ little lavatory.

She glanced over her shoulder at the Doctor, whose burgeoning grin had wilted like a tender flower in too much heat. The stall in front of them was barely big enough for her, let alone at half-Time Lord with ridiculously long legs—let _alone_ the pair of them together. But he simply shrugged, saying, “You can go first,” and left Rose to fold herself into the microscopic shower stall.

-

By the time she and the Doctor had finished their (painfully) respective showers, his mood had bounced back and she was feeling more awake than ever. “Rose,” he announced, holding a fluffy white towel tight around his waist. “I’ve just remembered that I know something about Russia.”

“Oh?”

He nodded, his wet hair flopping around like a puppy’s. He looked adorably eager, and she tamped down the flush of fondness that started to build in her belly.

“ _Banyas._ ”

She blinked. “And what’s that mean?”

“Saunas! A place like this ought to have a _banya_ —it’s sort of like… like a bath house, only you take steam baths, and you wave around a little broom—it’s fun! I promise! I’ve done it. Once. _I think?_ ” His eyebrows drew together, cutting a little furrow into his brow. She liked the lines that small action left behind—they were unique to this body. Little seams in the fabric of the man he was becoming. She was so caught up in her thoughts, she barely noticed that he’d stopped talking and appeared to be waiting for an answer. He’d said something about _building intimacy_ and _skin-softening,_ and really, that was all she needed to know.

She gave a little nod, a smile tugging the edges of her lips as he bounced on his toes. He hated waiting for her to decide; he’d always been the type to drag her around and show her things. But he waited nonetheless. “Alright,” Rose agreed. “Let’s go.”

She hadn’t heard the part about walking outside, through the snow. Or the part about waking the little _babushka_ who ran the inn, and building a fire, and waiting for it to heat the entire, long wooden structure while the woman—Vera—educated them on the fascinating topic of Russian _banyas_. 

Which, all things considered, was rather lucky.

-

“ _Oh…_ _my… God…_ ”

“I know!” The Doctor’s voice was enthusiastic, if a bit breathless. “I _knew_ there was a reason I liked this country! And I can say for _certain_ that it wasn’t Ivan the Terrible—though, I imagine you could guess that, given the name. He was, on the whole, pretty terrible.”

“Doctor,” she moaned, “you are a genius. You are _brilliant._ ”

He coughed out a little laugh, and she blinked her eyes open. Through the haze of steam, Rose could still make out a pair of dark brown eyes, and the general shape of his body, wrapped as it was in constellations of freckles. She could even make out his hair, drooping and devoid of all life, oppressed as it was by the heavy steam that swirled in the bath house. But she didn’t need to see his face to know he was grinning a megawatt smile—he always did, when she spoke like that.

Like he was her Doctor still.

Which he was.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. He was—for always, now. Legally, he was her Doctor _forever._ Until death, or whatever came after. And whatever came after that, too. He was stuck with her, good and properly. Her lips curved into a slow smile, and she rolled over onto her stomach, the steam curling and wisping around her as she moved. Her limbs felt heavy, struck through with a sultry heat, and she wanted to crawl over into her Doctor’s lap and ravish him in the middle of this steam bath, in the middle of this Russian almost-winter. It would be delicious, if she could just get up the energy to get up and go to him; he wasn’t far, just sitting—wide-legged and naked—on the opposite bench. But her head _would_ keep drooping. She stretched out her arm and made a grasping motion with her hand. 

“C’mere,” she mumbled dozily, “I want to kiss you.”

He gave another low laugh, his own body succumbing to the steam as well. His reactions were becoming delayed, slowing to the syrupy pace at which hers were already moving. “Yeah?”

Her eyes fluttered shut. “‘Course I do. Is this a honeymoon or not?”

When he spoke again, he sounded—he _was_ —closer. “Do you want it to be? I know it’s not the Canary Islands.”

“Oh, hush,” she mumbled. “I’ve never actually cared… where we go. So long as we’re together.” It wasn’t strictly true, but it also wasn’t strictly a _lie_. That had always been the most important thing, in the end. This universe hadn’t been the same without him, and neither had she been. She felt his touch on her limp, outstretched hand. “Hand to hold and all that,” she added quietly.

His fingers curled around her smaller ones, and his touch was hotter even than the steam. When she blinked her eyes open again, his face was hovering in front of her, blood-pinked and beaded with little diamonds of sweat and steam. He was kneeling beside her bench, it seemed, studying her with those fathomless, ancient eyes which were just now, just beginning to frame with crow’s feet. Little wrinkles from smiling, and squinting in the morning sunlight that snuck into their little flat, and from laughing when she did something “so strange and so human.” She loved this face—his face.

She lifted her head, and leaned forward to kiss him. His lips tasted like salt and skin. Like familiarity, and like new beginnings. And as her heart churned out a slow, swelling beat, she managed to roll herself over again—pulling him with her, until his body hovered over hers, sweat slick and deliciously sticky. And the pink and yellow girl—who was now more red and mellow than anything else—did set about ravishing her half-Time Lord husband, paying no mind to the fact that they were in Russia with absolutely no winter clothes.

They didn’t need them.

Which, all things considered, was rather lucky.


	4. With something of angelic light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Lotsofthinkythoughts (LOVE YOU, DEAR!)  
> Prompt: "Rose and Charley (and Eight? If you want), Regency vibes"  
> Pairing: Rose Tyler x Charley Pollard

The manor was still when Rose awoke—still and dark, with the embers of her little fire long since gone out. All around her was the true darkness of near dawn, eerie and impenetrable, when the moon is no longer mistress and the sun has yet to surge over the horizon. But there was no time to stoke her own fire this morning, for today was the young mistress’s wedding day.

A quick splash of chill water from the basin was enough to bring life and energy, first into her cheeks, and then into the rest of her body. She dressed hastily, but meticulously; today was not the day to look unkempt. As she slid on her stockings, and then her thin-soled shoes, she glanced through the window and prayed that it would not rain. _Not today,_ she silently pleaded. But the weather was God’s business, and getting the mistress ready was hers.

She padded, light-footed and quick, through the familiar rooms and halls of the house. It was a quick journey, from her room to her mistress’s, and one she knew by heart. She believed she could’ve found her way blind, deaf, and dumb, so many times had she walked it—or run, when the situation called for it. And sometimes, she mused with pinking cheeks, when the situation did not precisely call for it. Sometimes, it was mere eagerness that moved her feet along.

A similar energy propelled her onward this morning, and she arrived at her mistress’s door before the inky darkness had dissipated. The rest of the house would be waking soon, but for now, she was the only living soul awake—she pushed open the door, which moved on silent hinges—but one.

The mistress sat upright in the middle of her bed, staring at the hearth, inside of which a little fire crackled merrily. There was more liveliness to the flames than such an occasion as today warranted, and though the fire danced an exuberant little dance, the mistress’s face was unmoved. Rose swallowed. “You should’ve let me do that, miss.”

At the sound of Rose’s voice, the other woman’s face opened, a smile blossoming on her lips. Her cheeks dimpled, revealing her expression for true pleasure. “Nonsense,” the mistress said, her posture straightening. The neckline of her shift drooped over her shoulder, lending a regal sort of slovenliness to her bearing. “I am _perfectly_ capable of starting my own fire, Rose.”

Rose struggled to suppress a little smile and made for the fireplace, where she diligently stoked the already boisterous flames. “As I am well aware. But if you do not permit me to make your fires,” she teased, looking impudently over her shoulder, “whatever would you need me for?”

At that, the mistress laughed—it was a good sound, forthright and earnest. She tended to express her amusement in short bursts, as if the act of generating joy consumed the whole of her body, demanding the utmost of her lungs and throat. Rose loved to hear it, as it happened so rarely, but it was early yet, and such full-mouthed merriment would not help them this morning. With her best, most impertinent smile, Rose shushed her mistress. “Hush, now, Miss Pollard. You’ll wake the whole house.”

At that, Miss Pollard finally flung herself from bed, her braid whipping carelessly around her shoulders as she struggled into her negligée. “I wish it _would_ wake the whole house _._ I’d love to rattle the old—”

“Charley.” Rose’s tone was one of warning, as firm as she could make it, though more than a little amusement seeped through. She forced the corners of her mouth back downward and set about preparing the mistress’s clothes for the day.

“Oh, _all right,_ ” Miss Pollard groused. “Though _don’t_ think I can’t see you smiling into my frocks, you minx. I don’t know how you can have the temperance to be so—” and here, Miss Pollard swore an oath, as she was wont to do when she teased her maid, “—civil all the time. If I had to put up with _half_ the nonsense you do, I’m sure I’d quite—”

“You’d be as well-mannered and kind as I know you to be,” Rose crisply answered for her. “Blue dress?” Miss Pollard shook her head, sat down at her vanity, and began undoing her braid. Her hair, thick and gold like a bundle of summer wheat, was a wretched tangle; it always was when she did the braid herself, but she would insist on doing it. She liked her independence, her mistress. Though, Rose smiled, not _too much_ independence. “What about the cream?”

“No,” Miss Pollard replied, “it’ll dirty too fast on the road. I’d like something more like—well, more like yours, I should think.”

Rose looked down at her own simple grey dress and starched apron and finally let the smile she’d been suppressing sneak over her lips, the tip of her tongue stuck brazenly between her teeth. “Like mine, miss?”

Miss Pollard rolled her eyes. “Don’t ‘ _miss_ ’ me, Rose Tyler.” She stretched out her arms, indicating that Rose should leave the dresses be and attend to her person. But as soon as Rose made to fuss with her mistress’s hair, Miss Pollard— _Charley_ —clasped her hands and drew them around her neck, until Rose was embracing the seated woman, her own golden head propped delicately atop another. 

“Shall I call you ‘missus,’ then?” she teased, her voice as light as the golden rays which had begun to creep through the thick-paned windows. Outside, the dawn-lit hills were green and lush and beautiful; she knew she would likely not find them so lovely after a few hard days of riding, but for now, with her arms draped gently around her mistress’s neck and the scent of lavender in her nose, she could appreciate the surrounding country for all its wild beauty.

Charley’s head tilted, and Rose loosed her grasp to look down. “Not until you’ve earned it.” Her eyes grew a bit dazed, and her smile was hazy as she mused, “I think I shall like being a Mrs. Tyler very much. I should like you being a Mrs. Pollard even better.” At that admission, Rose felt a tightness in her belly—something like a thrill that made her want to run or dance, or sit very still and let the feeling wash over her like rain. Her cheeks ached from smiling, and she felt a decided pulse as Charley’s hands tightened around hers. “Do you think you’ll like that, Rose? Being a Mrs. Pollard?”

Rose bit her lip and nodded agreement, and it took her a moment of steady breath before she’d calmed enough to add, “I should like it above all things.”

And she knew she _would_ like it, when it came to pass. For she could not live without Miss Pollard—Charley—soon to be a Mrs. Tyler, a woman who nobody knew the background of but who had a very regal air about her and who seemed to be excessively devoted to her widowed friend, a Mrs. Pollard—Miss Tyler— _Rose_ , who could hardly believe herself to be the object of such faithful adoration. 

Charley twisted hurriedly in her seat, seeming unable to bear one more moment of separation, and clasped her arms around Rose’s waist. “Then we shall go,” she announced, muffled though she was by muslin, “as soon as I am dressed. I could give up almost anything happily, Rose; you know my temperament too well to think me precious or vain, but there is one thing I cannot give up—I _will not_ give up, no matter what my mother has implied, or what Mr. Grayle expects.” When she looked up, eyes were searching, and Rose felt herself drawn closer, downwards, as if called to prayer at some very great, very holy altar. “I cannot give you up.”

It was with such profound reverence in her heart that she bestowed a kiss upon her mistress’s lips—the first of many such kisses, in a life that would be long and shared. It was with that firm knowledge of right action that she traveled many miles by horseback to a new and fantastical life, riding alongside the woman who she called, in her heart of hearts, her wife.


	5. Ginger Envy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "In which Tentoo gets just enough of Donna’a DNA he ends up ginger, and Ten’s reaction to it."  
> Pairing: a touch of Ten x Rose, a touch of Tentoo x Rose

Rose stood with her hands cupped over her mouth. “Oh my _God_.”

“Well, I for one think you look ridiculous.”

“How can _I_ look ridiculous? I’m _you_ , only—”

“Don’t say it.”

“You’re ginger!” Rose was the first to break, her laughter rippling through the console room, in time with the amused light-pulsings of the TARDIS console. _Traitor,_ he thought at his ship. “Oh, I can’t believe it!”

“Rose,” the Doctor whined. “ _Stop_.”

But the other Doctor beamed. “D’you like it? Does it suit me?”

“Suit you?” Donna snorted, interrupting Rose’s enthusiastic nodding. “Nothing suits you, you twiggy git.”

“Hey!” the Doctors chorused. He glanced over at his ginger double. Weird.

“This is _your_ fault,” the Doctor insisted, pointing at his snarky friend. “It’s your genes that made him ginger!”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s _your_ hand that made the rest of him! Who just keeps a spare hand lying around where anyone might make contact and generate a spontaneous biological metacrisis?!” She realized what she was saying, and her mouth snapped shut with a petulant _hmph_.

The Doctor’s eyes widened. “Donna, how do you—? Hey!” Like a cat in a room full of laser pointers, his attention was bound to be drawn elsewhere. Specifically, to the attention he was _not_ receiving.

The other Doctor was saying, “So, you like it?” and, of course, Rose didn’t need to answer in the affirmative, because she was too busy running her hands through those ridiculous, gingery locks in a way that looked positively _sinful_.

“It’s so soft,” she cooed traitorously, “and I think it’s… thicker, maybe?” While her hands worked the other Doctor over like a dedicated head-masseuse, she seemed to take in the rest of the new Doctor’s person. Her voice came out sort of breathy as she announced, “And your skin’s paler, and your freckles are… sort of orange now, instead of brown, and…” She continued to list the changes— _improvements?_ —to his body, while the Doctor’s shoulders inched progressively higher, hiking up nearly to his ears as he stomped over.

“Rose,” he interrupted, “if you’re not too busy with your new _pet_ —”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” she retorted, her eyebrows furrowed with disapproval. “He only came into existence five minutes ago, I think he deserves a moment of our attention!”

“Hey!” The other Doctor cried out, “That’s brilliant—I’m five minutes old! My first five minutes! Feels like hardly any time at all!”

“That’s because it is hardly any time,” Donna interjected, having wandered her way over to the source of the fracas. “Whatever happened to that brilliant time sense, _Time Lord_?”

The Doctor watched carefully as his double—his paler, ginger double—seemed to register something. His eyebrows went up, and then down, and then his whole face got frowny. _Do I really look like that when I frown? It’s so… pouty._

“Doctor?” Rose asked, but she wasn’t asking him, she was asking the double. It was eerie, hearing his name without it being addressed to him, but that was a worry for another time—right now, the other Doctor looked like he was going to be sick.

“I’m _not_ a Time Lord,” he pronounced slowly, his eyes darting up to address the Doctor.

And the Doctor knew it was true.

“What?” Donna asked, with Rose only a second behind. “You’re not?”

His double—who, it seemed, wasn’t quite his double in every way—blinked and shook his head. “No. I’m mostly human. Hence,” he struggled to smile, “the ginger hair. Donna’s genes, it seems, are quite dominant.”

“No surprise there,” the Doctor muttered. Donna elbowed him in the ribs.

“You’re…” The Doctors both looked down at Rose, her mouth a moue of concentration. “So, you’ve only got the one heart, then? Let me—” And the Doctor watched as his double looked down tenderly at the girl who had crossed universes to find him, who was pressing her cheek to his chest so that she might listen to his single, mostly-human heart. She was so sure that this version of him— _any_ version of him—would love her as much as she did him.

And she was right.

The Doctor knew right then what he had to do, how he would lose her. His ginger envy faded as he watched his Rose’s expression bloom. “I can hear your heartbeat!”

Beside him, the Doctor felt a hand slip into his and squeeze. Donna looked up at him, her expression knowing.

The other Doctor may not have gotten the time sense, but he had gotten—was going to get… nearly everything else.


	6. I'll be coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Artist-in-a-tardis  
> Prompt: "The best Ten/Rose song would literally have to be Stay by Miley Cyrus! It describes them perfectly I think."  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

He’s calling it a farewell tour, because to call it a death note is too grim, and calling it a celebration of his life is patently dishonest. He makes all the stops he can manage, layering landing on top of landing, the mere act of being where he is not supposed to be making his body ache, the juddering wrongness of being in so many places at once setting his teeth on edge. He feels spread thin by the end of it, looking forward to his last stop as much as he’s dreading it, if only because it is, in fact, the last.

The very last.

It’s the only part that feels at all, in any way, like coming home again. And so, he approaches it much like he might—if he were a human man, with a life and carpets and a mortgage—approach his home at the end of a workday. He loosens his tie— _not_ because it is choking him, or because the act of getting precious oxygen into his lungs is taking more work than usual.

He is simply a man, loosening his tie.

It’s easy to forgive her for thinking he’s a drunk, considering the tie. Considering the… everything about him. His shoulders are sloped as he speaks to her, his bearing heavy.

“Maybe it’s time you went home.”

He does not say, “But that’s the problem, Rose Tyler from the Powell Estate: I _am_ home. The problem is that _you_ are my home, and you are a universe away from me, and even if I _could_ find you, I wouldn’t be able to _keep_ you. No matter how many times I run this loop and tell this story, no matter how many times I show up at your mum’s tiny little flat and poke my fingers through that stupid cat flap, I will never— _never_ —be able to keep you.

“Because, Rose Tyler, that is the problem with time. I make a lot of fuss about how complicated it is because you humans like to hear that—that it’s messy and tangled and unfathomable—because if you knew the truth, it would break you. But it’s really quite simple; time is only just a flat circle. A loop, infinitely repeating. I have found you and I have lost you a _thousand times_. A million times. A million billion times, I have come home to you, Rose.”

He does not say that, because it would be mostly nonsense, and in all likelihood, it would make her very, very nervous. And if he made her nervous, he might perhaps make her less prone to trusting strange men. And if he took away her capacity to trust slightly mad-looking men, she might never have gotten into his scrubby police box and traveled the whole of the universe with him. And if she’d never done that, he wouldn’t exist.

He blinks.

He wouldn’t _exist_.

For a moment, he sees it all play out in front of him, and he can’t tell if it’s real or not. It certainly doesn’t _feel_ real—he’d never imagined himself as this sort of man. But who can say now?

The life drains from his eyes, and his shambling becomes more threatening until he is looming over her, using all his height to oppress her, back her down. She looks up into the fathomlessness of his eyes and his brave Rose—she flinches. Her fear spurs him on. He doesn’t touch her, but then, he doesn’t need to. He is a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey and his mere _force of being_ is enough to crumble all her boldness to dust. 

_“You should be frightened, little girl.”_

From then on, she doesn’t walk alone. She asks Mickey to go out with her at night. She doesn’t know why, she tells him, but she just doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. Her best friend-turned-boyfriend curls his arm around her and says he won’t let anything bad happen to her. As if he can hold back what’s coming.

She only takes early shifts, because she dislikes the dark. When Henrik’s explodes, she is nowhere near the building. She loses her job, and her chance of meeting a mad man in a blue box.

He can practically feel himself—this _version_ of himself—blinking out of reality. He is a loop that cuts itself off before it can close. He is a clot in the wound of Rose Tyler’s existence, preventing her from ever leaving him—from ever _meeting_ him. Time struggles to sew itself closed over the gaping loss. He feels all the ways he dies without her, and all the ways he lives. He feels himself forgetting her until she is nothing—just a name on the wind. Just a page in a book nobody will ever open.

And then he blinks again.

“Did you hear me?” Her hands are on her hips, and she’s come a bit closer to him. She looks disapproving and worried all at once, and then she repeats herself, her tone more commanding than before. She almost sounds like Jackie—fearless. Who was he to think he could frighten her? His Rose, who had leapt through time and space to find him. “Go home, mate. I’m sure someone is wondering where you are.”

He thinks of the TARDIS, waiting in an alley, and gives a little nod. “Yeah, alright.”

At his acknowledgement, her whole face softens. “D’you need me to call a cab?” And she begins fumbling through her pockets, probably for her familiar old mobile.

But he shakes his head. “No. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” she shoots back, and then flushes. “Sorry.”

The Doctor chuckles, a wheezing sound that makes his ribs ache. “Don’t be. This isn’t my best look. I’ll be better by tomorrow.” _Whenever that is. Whoever I am by then._

“I’d like to see that.” She eyes him, up and down, appraising. It reminds him of all the times she’d stood in the console room and let her gaze drift up and down his body, taking in the long lines and gangly limbs and finding something to love in amongst the mess. The memory stings. But what _doesn’t_ hurt? He’s running out of time—

“Maybe you will,” he finds himself replying, even if it’s not true.

When she grins, her tongue touches her teeth in that familiar way. “Maybe.” And when he makes no answer, she begins to turn her back on him, calling “Happy New Year!” over her shoulder.

He isn’t ready yet. He holds on for one more second—one more question. “What year is it?”

Rose Tyler glances back at him, her blonde hair whipping in the wind under a winter hat. Her cheeks are flushed pink with the bitter cold, and her lips and nose are bitten with red. She looks beautiful. She looks like his saving grace. She looks like home.

And she says, “The best one yet.”


	7. Swapocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Aziraphale and rose switching bodies with a side of crowley/aziraphale and ten/rose?"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose, Crowley x Aziraphale

This is the story of how Rose Tyler inadvertently stopped the apocalypse. 

_But,_ you cry, _Rose Tyler has stopped many apocalypses, hasn’t she? For is she not the Bad Wolf, the Goddess of Time, and Companion of the Oncoming Storm?_ And you’d be correct in thinking all of that. She is and has done all of those things; however, this is—to my knowledge and recollection—the first and only time she ever stopped an apocalypse in a waistcoat.

-

“So, where are we?” Rose looked around, her eyes wide and expectant. 

The sight that greeted her was more than a little disappointing; they appeared to have landed in the middle of a bog standard airfield. The blacktop was slick-shiny and damp and seemed to stretch on for quite a ways, interrupted only by ominously empty air traffic control towers and low profile buildings with gaping barn doors. The whole place looked—even felt—recently abandoned, the smell of verdant greenery overwhelming the usual airfield smells of petrol fumes and burnt rubber.

The Doctor’s head appeared beside hers, leaning eagerly over her shoulder and through the doorway of the TARDIS. “Haven’t the faintest,” he replied cheerfully. “The TARDIS isn’t showing any data— _well_ ,” he amended, “any _useful_ data. Calling this ‘one of many possible ends’ isn’t actually terribly helpful.”

Rose’s mouth turned up into a slight smile at the Doctor’s one-sided bickering. She was, it has to be said, tremendously fond of him. “Well,” she announced, stepping out onto the blacktop, “it doesn’t _look_ apocalyptic, really, but the TARDIS does know best. Shall we?” 

The Doctor did so love to see her taking the lead like that, and he beamed at her back as she stepped daintily over a puddle.

And it was almost at that precise moment that everything got a bit—what’s the word? Oh, yes.

_Surreal._

-

The base—for an airbase it was, and American at that—was not _entirely_ abandoned, or so they worked out, once they followed the faint sound of voices.

“—vitally important that we speak to whoever is in charge.”

“He’s telling the truth. I’d know if he wasn’t.”

“Will you please stop interrupting? I am _trying_ —”

As they rounded the corner of a building, they saw three people who appeared to be locked in some sort of altercation: a couple with a scooter who were rather in distress and a man in full military fatigues who was looking more baffled than anything else.

“Should we help?” Rose whispered.

The Doctor squinted, making note of the woman who appeared to be bouncing quite frantically between voices, one female and demure, “—thought I’d put in a good word for—” and the other male and irritated, “—yeah, I understand, but you must—” 

Now _that_ was rather unusual. Potentially apocalyptic, even. He nodded, grabbing Rose by the hand and tugging her forward. A quick bit of sonic screwdriver work had the gate wrenched open in no time, and they slid through the sliver of space.

“What’s going on here?” he asked in his very best I’m-In-Charge sort of voice. It apparently worked, because the woman’s gaze snapped to him immediately, before shifting to the gate, which was already sliding closed behind them.

The voice that spoke out of her was the male one, though substantially less irritated than before. “Oh, thank heaven! Are you in charge? It’s _terribly_ urgent—”

But before the Doctor could answer the-woman-with-a-man-inside’s question, their burgeoning acquaintanceship was interrupted by the distant, haunting sound of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” which appeared to be emitting from a car.

A car which was, indisputably, on fire.

It was so aggressively on fire that Rose, being your average, flammable human, stepped backwards in horror. Or perhaps, the Doctor mused, she just didn’t like Queen. He went to make a mental note to ask her about it later. Though, since it was that sort of a day, his mental note-taking was interrupted by the car screeching to a halt, and a man getting out, and, in a voice hauntingly familiar, the man pronouncing, “You wouldn’t get that sort of performance from a modern car!”

“Doctor?” Rose gasped.

“Crowley?” the woman-with-a-man-inside gasped.

“ _Crowley_?” the Doctor repeated. “What sort of a name is that—Crowley?”

“I think it’s a nice name,” the woman spoke, finally regaining a modicum of control over her own body.

“Hey, Aziraphale!” the man-called-Crowley greeted. He seemed to ignore the Doctor and Rose entirely, as if seeing someone who was, for all intents and purposes, his physical double happened every day. And perhaps it did, in a world where you could drive on-fire cars and fit a man’s voice inside a woman’s body. “I see you found a ride. Nice dress, suits you.”

“She’s not a ride,” Rose piped up, her instinct for injustice flaring up. “She’s a _person._ ” The woman shot Rose a grateful look, though he wasn’t sure which body operator was the one doing it. The Doctor could hardly help but grin. Straight to the meat of things, his Rose. She never let wrongdoing pass her by—even when she probably should have.

At that, the man-called-Crowley-who-looked-like-the-Doctor seemed to take notice of his audience. “I was talking about the scooter. Who’re they?”

“Ah!” the man-from-inside-the-woman said. “They’re in charge here! I was just going to ask them for permission to enter, given the very _important_ nature of our visit.”

The poor man in fatigues seemed to be entirely lost, his eyes flicking madly from one unbelievable thing to the next. It was apparent he’d lost whatever tenuous control he’d had over the situation, and he seemed on the verge of speaking when—without his permission or action of any kind—the gates began to slide open, right as a group of children on bicycles zoomed by, totally unphased by the squabbling adults.

The man in fatigues sputtered. “What—?!” And then he took off after them, gun not exactly blazing.

The Doctor and Rose exchanged a glance, and then eyed the man-called-Crowley, the woman-with-a-man-inside, and the other useless bloke who seemed to have his finger stuck in a pointing position. Odd as they might be, none of them seemed strictly _bad_. So, the Doctor made a sweeping gesture and invited, “Shall we?”

The man’s voice tittered out of the woman’s mouth, and then, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he said, “First, let me just—”

And then, with a faint popping noise, everything went to hell.

-

“Doctor?” The man who appeared from nowhere—what was his name?—was squeaking, in a voice that was _definitely_ not male. In fact, the Doctor recognized the accent immediately. “How… how did I get over here?”

“Rose,” he soothed, “it’s all right. I’ll fix it.”

“Fix _what_?!”

“Oh, goodness!” The man’s voice came pouring out of Rose’s mouth. “It appears I—well, I missed.”

“You _what_?!” The Doctor, who did not take kindly to strange man possessing his—his _friend’s_ body, all but growled, “What’s your name? Aziraphale, was it? Get out of her. Get out of her _right now._ ”

Somewhere else, the older woman gave a surprisingly deep sigh. “It is so nice to have one’s body to oneself again.”

“Angel?” The man-called-Crowley appeared terribly confused as he eyed Rose’s body—which the Doctor did not particularly like either.

Rose’s voice sounded awed. “It’s so… there’s so much _room_ in here.”

And Rose’s body snappishly answered, “Excuse you! Are you calling me—?!” And then her shoulders dropped, and the dispirited voice possessing her muttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. These hormones are really… quite… Crowley?”

“Hm?”

“Did you notice that you and this man—I’m sorry, what was your name again, sir?”

“The Doctor.”

Aziraphale-in-Rose pursed her lips. “Right. Crowley, _look at him._ ”

Crowley _did_ look at him, and the Doctor did not particularly _like_ the way he was looking. The other man’s eyes were completely unlike his rather warm, (he thought) pleasant brown ones; they were blackish and yellowish and vaguely snake-like, which made him want to reassess his whole “not strictly bad” verdict.

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you see a resemblance?”

Rose-in-Aziraphale piped up, “It’s uncanny, isn’t it?” And then, a little distantly, “Doctor, I feel…?”

“I don’t see it,” Crowley shrugged.

“Doctor, I think something’s—”

“Just a tick, Rose. I’m sorry, are you kidding me?” The Doctor frowned his most disapproving frown. “We look _exactly_ alike, only I’m better looking and— _well_ ,” he harrumphed, “you’re ginger.”

“Ginger?!” Crowley seemed offended by the word.

“Doctor!” Rose-in-Aziraphale said, almost exactly at the same time. Only her voice rang out differently than it had before; it sounded like the TARDIS cloister bell, and a bit like a thousand voices singing in celestial harmony, and also an awful lot like Rose Tyler when she was in a tiff. “Pay _attention_ to me! Something is _happening_!”

Something _was_ happening. The body she possessed appeared to be glowing. And he recognized the golden light almost as soon as it emerged, pouring out through the man’s open eyes, singeing his white-blonde lashes. And his mouth was open in a very Rose-like expression of horror. “I remember—this is—”

“Rose,” the Doctor warned.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley questioned, only slightly phased.

“It was my finger!” The man who had been standing about uselessly pointing at things seemed to be looking at Rose-in-Aziraphale with ecstatic delight. “I did it! I summoned the heavenly host!”

“It’s not the heavenly host, you moron,” Crowley snipped.

The Doctor nodded. “It’s the time vortex!”

And everyone except Azira-Rose, who was preoccupied with the light coming out of his fingertips, turned to look at the Doctor, wearing a whole range of expressions that could be summarily described as “incredulous.”

“What?!”

“Did you say ‘time vortex’? What kind of _nonsense_ —oh, you’re from _Gallifrey_ aren’t you?” Crowley groaned. “Ridiculous place.”

“What’s she doing to my body? I’ll have to report the damages!”

“It feels like I’m being pulled—”

They were all bickering amongst themselves with such vigor, all struggling to be heard over the sound of exploding vehicle and heavenly chorus and their own racing hearts, they hardly noticed the fact that—

Rose-in-Aziraphale had flashed out of existence.

-

That was, of course, because she had to go negotiate with Satan. 

“In a waistcoat,” she griped to herself, as she reappeared in front of a very large, very gummy-looking red man who appeared to be The Devil. “I can barely lift my bloody arms!”

She did not need to lift her arms, fortunately. The golden light from every pore and infallible knowledge of all time and space was quite threatening enough.

-

When she and Adam and the rest found them, they were still squabbling among themselves.

“I heard an explosion over there, we ought to—”

“No, we’ve got to find Rose! If you’ve harmed so much as a _hair on her head_ —”

“Well, it’s _my_ head at stake, isn’t it? Her head’s fine; her silly, blonde head’s _right here_!”

“Yes, and it doesn’t suit you at all.”

“That’s not the _point,_ Crowley—”

“Oh my God,” Adam mumbled. “They are _so_ stupid.”

Rose-in-Aziraphale smiled. “I know. People tend to be. It’s what makes them so fun.” Adam snickered, and she felt a momentary flood of relief in that simple little sound. He would still be a boy, after all, the defeat of Satan notwithstanding. “Now, get on your bikes and pedal back home—tell everyone…” Her mouth fell open; she wasn’t rightly sure _what_ to tell everyone. The glowing sense of rightness was already fading.

“It’s going to be okay?”

She looked down at the little boy with so much life in his eyes, and she nodded. “Yes. Tell them that.” Because it was true.

She’d seen it.


	8. From which we were absent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "phone sex eight (this is a prompt)" (lol. this prompt killed me.)  
> Pairing: Eight x Charley x Rose
> 
> Note: Slightly mature. I don't think it's m-rating worthy, but the premise is sort of adult-ish.

They were having a discussion about kinks.

This sort of thing would probably never have happened under regular circumstances. Because while their friendship was quite open—or rather, Rose was willing to admit, _she_ was sometimes quite open and Charley was… well, she was Charley—they hadn’t actually touched the topic of specific fantasies or desires. Mostly because neither of them were particularly… experienced in that area. They'd both come out to one another, but it never really went beyond that. They were bisexuals, after all, not nymphomaniacs—whatever the stereotypes might say.

But presently, they were two rather _drunk_ bisexuals, and that made all the difference.

"Oh, c'mon, Charley. Surely you've got _something_ you really like."

Charley held onto the half-empty wine bottle for dear life and shook her head vigorously. Exasperated, she insisted, "I don't know! I _really_ don't! You know about everyone I've ever been with, and nobody's ever been particularly… _inspiring._ " 

Rose snorted. She could say _that_ again. She had developed strong opinions about nearly all of Charley's exes, though she’d never actually _met_ any of them. But how a girl so brilliant and beautiful managed to only date arseholes was completely beyond her. Sebastian had been a total prick, Cristina had been clingy, and the other bloke—she couldn't remember his name—had seemed nice enough until he stood her up and left her stranded.

Not that Rose's dating life was any better.

But she wasn’t thinking about that tonight. She wasn’t thinking about anything but getting pissed as fast as possible, and cuddling up in their veritable mountain of blankets, and forgetting that it was nearly the end of term.

“What about you, then?”

Rose shrugged and gestured for the bottle. “The normal ones, I suppose. Good smile, nice bum.” Charley scoffed. “And I have this thing,” she intimated, her head bowing closer to Charley. Her hair smelled like the sweet pine needles that littered campus. “It’s like, sometimes, when a bloke talks… I just sort of… drift away…” Charley seemed to be suppressing a grin, which she took for a good sign, letting herself sway dramatically in a pantomime of drifting away. “I feel like his voice is carrying me to distant places, or sometimes touching me all over… I dunno, it’s mad, probably…” And then her head dropped forlornly to Charley’s shoulder. 

“There’s a name for that, probably,” her roommate teased. The vibration of her throat rumbled over the top of Rose’s head. “Like _audiophilia_ or something.”

“But it’s more than what they’re saying, yeah?” Rose’s wine-slowed brain struggled for the right words as she lifted her head from Charley’s sweet-smelling shoulder. “It’s _how_ they’re saying it. They could be reading me… I dunno, the phonebook, and I’d still be swept off to wonderland.” Her fingers tightened around the bottle—the chill glass grounded her.

Charley snorted. “No wonder you like lectures so much. Who’s your favorite prof? Doctor Sm—?”

“Don’t!” Rose burst out with a panicked giggle. “Don’t you dare.” But she knew her red cheeks said more than she ever could, and Charley gave a little elbow nudge.

“Read the phonebook, you said? What about a textbook?”

“Oh my God,” Rose groaned, “you’re awful. No, I don’t fancy Doctor Smith. He’s… he’s too old.” She said it with a sniff, feigning disapproval that she didn’t actually feel. “Anyway, I’d never go for it—pretty sure he’s married.”

“And he’s your professor, which makes shagging him completely unethical.”

Rose giggled again, rolling her eyes at Charley. Always so pragmatic. “Right, and that. But he _is_ Scottish, so perhaps I could risk it.”

That pulled a full-throated laugh out of her friend. “I’m sure you go all gooey-eyed and stupid every time he speaks. God! I wish I had a class with you so I could see him in person!” Charley griped good-naturedly while Rose took another large sip of wine. It tasted sharp and sweet and cheap, but she could hardly complain. Smuggling it into the dorm had taken some doing, and it was worth it—seeing Charley so loose and carefree sparked something mad and rebellious in her, something that made her protective and proud all at once.

They’d been friends first, basically from orientation, and then roommates in the following years. And Rose had seen what she imagined to be every shade of Charley—happy and heartbroken, miserable and motivated, pleased and pissed off, cold and compassionate. Her roommate was a reserved person by nature, but Rose’s persistence had worn down her walls until she’d had no choice but to admit they were friends. And Rose had rejoiced. 

She couldn’t imagine her life without Charley any more than she could understand the complex equations her friend studied in class.

Charley was… her best friend.

“You’d hate it,” she said, her voice nearly sticking in her throat. “He just goes on and on about old paintings.” But Charley’s grin was knowing as she prised the bottle out of Rose’s hands, taking another generous sip herself. The tip of her nose was blushy and pink, as were her ears, and she looked almost painfully lovely.

But no, Rose wasn’t thinking about that tonight. Or ever, probably.

It was just then that she had an idea. A potentially very stupid idea. Certainly a naughty one, she thought with a flush. But Charley would probably get a laugh out of it, and wasn’t that the whole point of tonight? Getting their mind off things, off of the change that was coming for them both? Graduation, and what came after? 

“I’ve gotta use the loo!” she announced, picking up her mobile and darting out of the room. “Be right back—and don’t drink all the wine!”

“I make no promises!” Charley shouted after her, the sound of her drunken giggles traveling down the hall.

-

It had only taken a bit of Googling, a quick phone call, and a cheeky swipe of plastic— _thank you, Henriks,_ she laughed—before Rose was on hold, waiting for her connection. She had the phone pressed to her ear, ringing her closer to her fate, when she re-entered their cramped dorm room.

Charley had apparently decided to put on pyjamas, and was half-undressed, her bra slung carelessly over the back of Rose’s desk chair. Her bare back stretched for what seemed like miles. “You’re such a slob,” Rose teased. It wasn’t true, of course. Charley didn’t like things out of place, so the scrap of white fabric draped over Rose’s chair was just about the only mess she could claim in their—admittedly rather cluttered—dorm. It was Rose and her paint sets and her sky-high canvas pile and her endless cups of pigment-tinged water that turned the room into a tornado.

“You love it!” Charley shot back, snatching the bra from where it lay and cramming it into her dresser. Rose grinned; the poor thing _really_ couldn’t bear untidiness. “And who’s on the phone?”

Rose put the line on speaker, letting the ringing fill the room. “A phone sex operator.”

“A what?!” Charley’s voice came out muffled, seeing how she was pulling something over her head. But it was undeniably several octaves higher than it had been.

“A phone sex operator,” Rose repeated. And then, with a wicked grin, she said, “We’re going to discover what you like, Charlotte Pollard.”

Charley squeaked, her pink face emerging from inside the jumper. “Rose Marion Tyler! You can’t just—”

“Hello, ladies.”

Charley groaned and fell into a heap on the floor, nearly missing their nest of slumber party pillows. She dropped her head in her hands. “Oh my God.”

The man on the line chuckled, low and warm. “No, just John. Or… you can call me Professor Smith.” His voice was crisp and cultivated, but there was something deep about it—earthy, maybe. Rose felt a slight shiver going down her spine.

Charley didn’t say anything, electing instead to shoot her roommate a withering glare. Rose only grinned. “Nice to meet you, John. That was Charley.”

“Charley,” he repeated, almost tasting the name. For a moment, she could practically see his tongue working it over, and she felt her cheeks go crimson. Charley’s face was still hidden. “What an intriguing name. Is it short for something?”

“Yes, it is,” Charley answered brusquely, as Rose settled down into the cushions beside her. She almost laughed at her friend’s dry tone and the residual pink stain on her cheeks. “And a bit more interesting than ‘John Smith,’ I’d say.”

That produced another low chuckle. “Fair enough. And there are two of you?”

Rose nodded, momentarily forgetting that he couldn’t see her. “Oh, uh—yes, hi.” She glanced sideways at Charley, who appeared to be coming around; she looked more amused than anything else, chewing desperately on her lips to keep from laughing.

“And your name is?” God, but his voice was _gorgeous._ Rich and textured, like it was something edible.

“Rose,” she croaked, before clearing her throat. “Sorry. Rose.” Well, she thought fleetingly, her voice certainly couldn’t be described the same way. Her words and accent sounded thick and stupid compared to his.

“Rose,” he repeated, same as before. Once again, he seemed to linger around the edges of the name, balancing it on the tip of his tongue. This time, she _did_ shiver. “No need to apologize. I understand the nerves. ‘ _Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days! Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways…’_ ”

Her eyes were wide as she glanced at Charley, and both of their shoulders shook in silent laughter, though for Rose’s part, she had to fight down a shiver. He was _perfect_. She tried to put on her best, most carefree tone, saying, “Oh, you’re _very_ good, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.” 

She could _hear_ his smile, she realized. Hearing him without seeing him added an element of excitement she hadn’t expected, like a mild sort of sensory-deprivation. 

“Not a fan of poetry, Rose?”

She was, actually, though she preferred the more modern stuff. “Bunch of dead blokes waxing poetic about… white throats and heteronormativity? No, ta.”

He laughed—not in that low, seductive way he’d done before. He just laughed outright, like she’d caught him a bit off-guard.

And _oh,_ what a sound. It was bright and alive, so lovely that she wanted to provoke it again, and again—

“I see,” he mused slowly, his voice returning to that dark, even tone. “Perhaps I could try something else? Let’s see… ‘ _For by my side, you put on many wreaths of roses… and garlands of flowers around your soft neck… and with precious and royal perfume you anointed yourself. On soft beds, you satisfied your passion. And there was no dance, no holy place… from which we were absent.’_ ”

Rose’s stomach dropped.

_Oh._

_On soft beds,_ her mind echoed, taking on his particular timbre and spreading it thick, like honey into tea, _you satisfied your passion. On soft beds… on soft beds, you satisfied… your passion..._

“Which dead bloke is that then?” But she couldn’t quite muster the same bravado as before. He really _was_ very good. Her whole body was starting to feel floaty, like it sometimes got in Doctor Smith’s class, or when she was listening at open mic nights. Her limbs felt weightless and numb, and her heart thundered in her chest.

“It’s Sappho,” Charley whispered.

“Correct, Charley!” John—Professor Smith—sounded quite proud, but Rose’s eyes went wide, glancing over at her friend. Charley knew _poetry?_ Charley, who loathed Tennyson and loved logarithms? “Am I to assume you’ve read her?”

“A little,” Charley muttered, her cheeks pinking once again. “And not by choice. I was tutored… anyway, it’s much prettier when you say it.”

Rose, catching herself agape, snapped her mouth shut and wiggled her eyebrows.

“Well, that is sort of my job,” the man on the line said, suddenly reminding them of what his purpose here was. How could she have got so distracted? “Speaking of—lovely as this is, ladies, we’re approaching the five minute mark. Would you like to continue for seven more?” His tone was gently interested without appearing desperate, and his sophisticated style of speech had never felt more intentional. And then he added, “I assure you, I can tell you about a lot more than mere poetry,” his voice taking on that low, urging quality that made Rose’s stomach roll.

The girls exchanged a glance, wordlessly communicating. Charley nodded in encouragement, and Rose wondered if her friend really was enjoying herself, or if she was simply aware of how this little experiment was affecting Rose.

But to her surprise, it was Charley who pronounced, “Let’s do twenty.”

-

“Finally!” Rose exclaimed, just as Charley hissed, “Shhh! You’re on _speaker_ , you—”

John chuckled, the sound crackling over the line like kindling, cutting them both off. “So, we’re sneaking around, are we? Naughty.”

Charley groaned in something like embarrassed horror, but Rose managed to keep her wits about her and answer his question, smiling impishly. Finally, they were getting to the meat of things, so to speak. “I’m just wearing sweatpants. I know it’s not very sexy, but I wasn’t really expecting—”

Once again, John cut her off. “Nonsense,” his voice wasn’t dismissive or brusque, but decisive. He spoke with such _certainty_ , like he knew something she didn’t—like he understood her. “I’m sure you’re perfect the way you are. Actually, how about we do a little exercise? Would you be interested?”

And once again, Charley and Rose exchanged a silent glance. They’d squashed closer together, nestled down in their pile of blankets with their legs tangled as they mutually hovered over Rose’s little mobile, which lay cradled between them. It was Charley who answered, “Maybe?”

“What’s the exercise, Professor?” Rose teased. She was all too happy to play along with whatever the dulcet-toned man on the line suggested.

“Thank you for asking, Rose.” He answered, and his soft-voiced approval felt like a caress. “I’d like you to describe to me what the _other_ is wearing, how she looks to you. Rose, you’ll tell me about Charley. Charley, you’ll tell me about Rose. Does that sound all right?”

Rose nodded at Charley, who looked just a touch nervous.

“Sure,” Rose breathed faintly. “We can do that.”

“Excellent,” he said, warmly affirming. How did he _do_ it? “Rose, you can get us started.”

She took a deep breath, and looked at the girl she’d spent nearly three years living with. “She’s dressed like she does for bed,” she began hesitantly.

“Very good, Rose. Tell me more.”

Her response to the gentle command was instantaneous, her eyes skimming Charley’s body. “She’s wearing an oversized jumper with our uni’s crest on it, and the neckline’s all stretched, so it hangs off her shoulder a bit. And she’s got on pyjama shorts—yellow ones? Almost a sort of… cream…”

“That sounds lovely,” John enthused. Charley blushed. “How does the color look against her skin?” His words drew Rose’s eyes down to Charley’s exposed thighs, and she took a slow inhale to keep her reactions even and cool. It wouldn’t do to give herself away now.

Rose suddenly wondered why she’d ever thought this was a good idea, when it was so obviously asking for trouble. They didn’t _need_ more sexual tension in their tiny dorm room.

“Beautiful,” her brain supplied. “Like a bronzed statue, almost. She’s tanner than I am, from swimming. She’s got some freckles on her right kneecap.” Said knee shifted against hers, and she swallowed. “Her legs are quite long for such a small person. And—” Her eyes slid the rest of the way, down over Charley’s calves, all the way to her feet. She smiled. “And she’s got violet polish on her toes. I don’t go in for feet myself, but Charley has really pretty ones. I’m quite jealous!”

“Jealous?” Charley echoed, shaking her head. The action ruffled her short, blonde hair, the static from her pillow making her pixie cut stand on end; she looked like a shocked fairy. “Don’t be ridiculous. Rose has _nothing_ to be jealous of.”

“Tell me about her, please, Charley.” John’s voice was passive now, almost as if he’d stepped back and was acting as a conduit for their self-exploration. Rose wondered if he was bored of talking to them—what he was actually doing. Was he scrolling through BBC articles while they took stock of one another’s bodies? Was he watching telly?

Charley’s little throat-clearing drew Rose’s attention back. “Well,” she said primly, “Rose is probably the prettiest girl at our university.”

Rose scoffed.

“I’m serious! She’s got this perfect blonde hair—”

“So do you!”

“Now, Rose,” John chided, “don’t interrupt. Fair is fair. I want to know everything Charley has to say about you.”

That shut her up, and sent her gut twisting. He seemed _actually_ interested.

Or he was just a very good actor.

Probably that.

“Fine,” she muttered, “though _you’re_ the one who oughtta be talking.”

“Ah, but this is so much more fun.” He sounded downright amused. “Anyway, I won’t know what to compliment if I don’t have some idea of what you look like. Charley, please continue.”

“Rose always wears bright colors. Lots of pinks and peaches and reds… I used to think it was just to play on her name, but they really suit her.”

“I can imagine.” John’s voice was so low that a warmth bloomed unexpectedly in Rose’s navel. She hadn’t expected the cumulative effect of Charley’s compliments and John’s appreciation, but it felt more _good_ than mortifying. She had that drifty feeling she got, but Charley was grounding her.

“She’s wearing a red tank top right now,” Charley detailed, her eyes sliding over Rose’s body. Was she seeing things, or had Charley’s pupils dilated? “You’ll be interested to know that I can see…” Her best friend blushed again; it seemed to be an almost-perpetual state of being just now. But it suited Charley well, giving her a healthy glow. “I can see her bra straps,” Charley finished, shooting Rose a shy grin. “Do you want to know what color?”

“Desperately.”

He sounded a bit terse that time, and Rose’s eyebrows twitched. Charley noticed it too, it seemed, because the corner of her mouth hitched in a mischievous smile.

“Can you guess?”

John huffed a laugh. “Rose, I believe your friend is a tease.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” she laughed. “Charley’s normally as buttoned-up as can be.”

“And yet she sleeps in oversized jumpers and skimpy little shorts?” He hummed. “Doesn’t sound very buttoned-up to me. But you won’t distract me from my mission, Rose. Tell me about the bra straps.”

“We’ll give you a hint,” Rose offered.

His laugh seemed surprised again, like he was thrown off by her continued flirtation, though she wasn’t sure why—or at what point his gratification and participation had become so important to her. She couldn’t help grinning, her tongue poking out of the corner as it tended to when she was giddy. Rose wasn’t mistaken; Charley’s eyes definitely dilated that time.

“Alright,” he conceded. “A hint.”

Rose winked at her roommate, a silent signal.

“They’re the same color as the rest of my bra.”

And like a balloon bursting, Charley exploded into laughter, full-bodied and warm. Her spine curled in on herself as she held her shaking stomach. John, nearly drowned out by Charley’s merriment, groaned melodramatically. “Minx!” he declared. Rose felt all the tension draining out of her body, barely aware that it had been steadily growing, churning in her gut. It had been a good sort of build up, but releasing the pressure had somehow let air back into the room. She felt wicked and wild, as if she could say anything—do anything—so long as they were still listening.

“I’ve got to keep _some_ element of mystery!” she cried.

“You’re nothing _but_ mystery, woman!” John protested. “I can’t see you, I can’t picture you anywhere, the only thing I know is what you sound like—it’s maddening. Not,” he swiftly corrected, his voice lowering into that familiar, deep tone, “that I have any right to know those things.”

“No,” Rose preened, “you don’t, but it’s nice to know you’d like to.”

“So,” Charley interrupted, “what normally comes next?” Her body tensed, as if preparing for some very lewd things.

But John simply laughed—though it also sounded a bit like a sigh. “I suppose I could join in the fun and tell you what I’m wearing.”

“That’s rather dull,” said Rose. “Why don’t you tell us what you like instead?”

“What I like?”

“Yes!” Charley supplied enthusiastically. “Aren’t you supposed to be a professor? What do you teach?”

Once again, that half-laugh, half-sigh.

“Is that _really_ what you want to talk about? You’re not even remotely interested in hearing about what I’m imagining about you two?”

Rose’s breath caught in her throat then, and she knew Charley saw it. Both of their eyes grew wide. Where had all the air gone? Rose was chasing her breaths, trying to appear calmer than she felt. He couldn’t know—there was no way, she insisted. It was standard dirty talk. He was trying to move their session along.

“Tell us,” Charley said, much to Rose’s surprise. Her voice was steady. She didn’t break eye contact. And it set the whole world spinning.

“I’m imagining you, Rose,” John murmured in that velvety tone, “running your hand over Charley’s bare thigh, down to her knee—the one with the freckles—just lightly… like you’re trying to dip your fingers into water without breaking the surface tension. She feels like silk beneath your hand. You’re wondering what it would feel like… beneath your mouth.”

Her hand twitched at her side, clenched into a fist.

“And Charley, you lift your hand—see, look, how it trembles!—to run your fingers over Rose’s blushing cheek… and into her hair. You feel it between your fingers, slipping slowly… and then you glide down—down… over the column of her neck, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the flash of—what color was that bra strap again?”

“Pink,” both girls said, their voices a breathless unison. Their faces were so close, their breathing synced. Rose felt as if she’d been placed under a spell, her whole body attuned to the story he was weaving for them. An impossible story, some ragged part of her mind cried. _Not their story._

“Pink,” he repeated thoughtfully. Was he pleased? Rose wondered why she cared, how she could hold these two painful wants at once—one so near, one at an unknowable distance. “Charley, you slide the strap down over her shoulder, right as you, Rose, lean in—finally give in to what you’ve both been wanting for what feels like forever—finally letting your breath mingle… your hearts beat in tandem… your hands slide over smooth skin… and your lips touch… in the gentlest, the most hesitant of kisses… Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” Rose said, her voice shaking. Charley was barely a breath away, and her eyes—her eyes were darting down to her lips, led by the steady hand of their guide.

“That’s good. I want you to feel it, everywhere in your bodies—that kiss, it travels through you like lightning, doesn’t it? A strike of soft heat… blurred at the edges. You feel it growing, blossoming into a slow-churning _want_ —but hasn’t it been there all along? Hiding beneath the surface of everything? I wouldn’t be here now if you didn’t already feel it, sparking between you…” His voice hung, suspended on the edge. “ _Desire._ ” The word dropped like a stone. “True companionship, yes. But passion, too. You _want_ each other.”

Rose watched it happen—she watched something _snap_ in Charley’s eyes. One moment, the breath between them might as well have been a chasm. And the next, their lips—

Her _lips_ —

“Oh my God,” Rose muttered, the words and her teeth catching against Charley’s plush mouth. 

Because Charley was _kissing her._

The kiss wasn’t anything like John had described—not really. But then, maybe it was. It was searing, traveling straight through Rose’s body until she felt it into her toes. The _rightness._ The sense of balance. Her best friend’s lips. Charley tasted like wine and smelled like the wind in the trees, and Rose felt her whole world shift just slightly on its axis, because… because Charley was _reaching_ for her. For more.

It started to be _just_ like he’d described then—Charley’s hands tangling in her hair, Charley’s hands dragging over her throat. Their legs locked together like a three-dimensional puzzle, their chests flush, their breathing perfectly synced. As one inhaled, the other exhaled, so there was never an inch of space between them. 

And John was still speaking, lending an audial presence that was somehow comforting and illicit at once. There was no battling, no real search for a rhythm between her and Charley; they just fell into a slow, rolling give and take that _he_ seemed to guide with his low, rolling syllables and even cadence. It was a structure they could cling to. Even though she could hardly tell what he said—only what it did to her body, and to her mind, which seemed to have floated far away from earth—she felt his speech over every inch of skin.

A nip from Charley brought her back to earth, making her abruptly conscious of her own lightheadedness. She pulled back, gasping for breath, in time to see Charley’s eyes fluttering open as well. Conscious recognition of their position came like cold water.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Rose repeated her earlier exclamation.

Shock slid over Charley’s features. “Oh— _oh_ , I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s—”

“I got totally carried away—”

“—fine, I promise. I’ve—”

“—and now I’ve ruined—”

“—wanted this for ages.”

“—everything! Wait, _what_?”

John’s laugh came down the line—so honest and bright—and Rose’s eyes were drawn to the phone. “Oh my God. John.”

“You two are completely adorable—did you know that?”

“ _What_ ?” Charley protested, her voice strained. It was unlike anything Rose had ever heard from her before. She sounded like she’d run a mile uphill—or had the life snogged out of her. “You… you _like_ me?”

Oh my _God,_ she’d _snogged Charley._

Rose cleared her throat. “Well, I guess we need to talk.”

“And that,” John piped up, “is my cue to go. Ladies, it’s been a complete pleasure. Send me an invite to the wedding, if you please. I do love love.” His last words sounded wistful. And then, before they could say anything—protest, entreat, or otherwise—the line went dead. John Smith, whoever he was, was gone.

Charley looked at her, lips swollen and pink and, to Rose’s chagrin, still imminently kissable.

Yeah, she decided, there was going to be a good bit of talking.

In just a few minutes.

-

Two weeks after graduation, the girls walked hand-in-hand into their favorite off-campus coffee shop. It had been an indulgence during school, too far and too expensive to be convenient, but now—it felt like a reward. For all their hard work in their final term. For surviving to graduation.

And they were celebrating other news, too. Rose’s internship at the gallery. Charley finally deciding on an advanced degree program. Their new flat.

And silly as it was, it felt a tiny bit like a rebellion. Against all the stares and sighs they’d put up with while still keeping their spines straight. Against the disapproval from Charley’s mum, and the overbearing questions from Rose’s.

She’d always known that love was an act of rebellion in an unkind world. But she’d gotten particularly lucky, she thought, in who she’d be walking through the world with. Charley… she was the best person Rose had ever known. They’d only been together a few months, but it already felt… _right_. Like it had that night, growing steadily more so more every day. Permanent. All the little reasons not to, all the little fears that she’d built up had crumbled into nothing once they’d actually communicated about them. Because, when it came down to it, Rose loved Charley. And Charley loved her. And that was just _that._

They were happy.

They were in line for syrupy, sugar-sweet coffee, and they were happy.

“He’s fit,” Rose whispered, clasping Charley’s hand tightly for balance as she leaned to get close to her ear. They had a habit of doing this, when someone took their fancy. After all, they were in love—not stone dead. They never acted on anything, anyway.

“You think?” Charley whispered back, her words stirring the hair falling out of Rose’s ponytail. Goosebumps rose in response, and Rose did her best not to shiver. “He’s got _quite_ the hair.”

She snorted. It was true; the bloke had an outrageous mass of chestnut curls. Something about it made her fingers _itch_ to comb through them. She bet he even used a conditioner.

She was contemplating how to get that same texture and lift in her own hair when the line shifted, and Fit Guy was next at the counter.

Both girls went quiet. This was a habit, too—of _listening_ . Rose knew Charley would be eyeing her, waiting for a reaction to this random bloke’s coffee order. If Rose blushed, tender teasing awaited her. Five months and a very happy relationship hadn’t been enough to dampen her so-called _audiophilia,_ and Charley loved to torment her about it—playing audiobooks while Rose tried to study, asking about Professor Smith’s lecture notes, and generally taking delight in her girlfriend’s rather innocent obsession.

“Just tea, please,” the man said. “No cream, and extra sugar.”

Charley’s eyes went wide. 

Rose’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my _God._ ”

At that, the man’s shoulders stiffened. It was almost amazing, Rose thought, how fast it seemed to happen. One second, they were all just strangers standing in line at a café; the next, he was turning, his expression one of recognition. He had a little headset hanging from his neck, one earbud in, and one hand was plunged in his messenger bag, probably digging for money.

Before she could stop herself, Rose was saying, “Oh, that’s not _fair_.” Because he _would_ be gorgeous. _Of course._

Charley, with her hand still tightly in Rose’s, appeared to be largely speechless. “Is… are you…?” 

John Smith—God, what a rubbish name; she hoped it wasn’t his real one—smiled at them. He laughed, one singular and familiar sound, bright and brilliant. And Rose, right there in the coffee shop, felt her world— _their world_ —shift. Again.

“Hello, ladies.”


	9. Handcuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Paigenotblank  
> Prompt: "For the prompts: choice of either Dimension Hopping Rose somehow gets handcuffed to Eight while neither knows the other, but they somehow figure out how important the other with be to them (and you know if kissing happens that's a bonus) OR Ten x Rose and Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing." (I went with the first.)  
> Pairing: Eight x Rose

The air was thick. Heavy, almost. It smelled like old books—like dust, but in a sort of lovely way that reminded her of… a library—and also a tiny bit like tea. It almost tickled in her sinuses. The familiarity made her nose wiggle and twitch, trying to make sense of what she was smelling—which was what ultimately woke her up. That, and she sneezed.

“Bless you.” 

She felt the words more than heard them. A humming in her chest. Lovely.

“Thanks,” she whispered, blinking her eyes open. And a face swam into focus. Also lovely. And distinctly underneath her. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry—I must’ve—”

“No, don’t—”

But she tried to lift herself anyway, polite as his demurral was. Before she could get into a fully upright position, she felt an abrupt tightening around her wrists and ankles. It wasn’t _painful,_ only surprising, and quite forceful. And she instinctively dropped back down, crouched on her elbows and knees so she hovered over the man beneath her.

“Oh!” was her huff of surprise, as her eyes grew wide and she finally began to take stock of her surroundings. “What—where _am_ I?”

The word her mind instantly supplied—though, from where she didn’t know—was _laboratory._ Everything around her was clean and sterile-looking, if not strictly in the usual professional style. The almost violently red walls, the giant mirror, and the copper work surfaces provided a grating, incohesive aesthetic, as if someone had designed a room with their eyes closed. And perhaps they had. The lighting was terribly dim.

If it weren’t for the heart monitor and the extensive collection of glass test tubes, she might assume they were in a rather ugly and overstimulating hotel room.

A rather ugly and overstimulating hotel room where she was handcuffed to a stranger, via the copper rungs of a bed.

She felt her chest tighten. And she must’ve been connected to the monitor, because the beeping—she’d hardly noticed the sound before, so distracting was everything else—sped up along with her rising heart rate. Her eyes flashed back to the stranger. His expression was rather placid, his pale blue eyes scanning her face. “Don’t panic, it’s all right. If you panic, they’ll come in and sedate you again.”

“ _Again_?”

“Yes, we’ve done this three times before and I still haven’t learned your name.”

“But I don’t remember—”

“I know, that’s the sedative. Can you take a deep breath for me?” And he took a deep breath himself, his chest rising and brushing against hers. She followed his lead, the oxygen rushing to her head and loosening her shoulders. The beeping slowed. She shifted on her knees, trying to get comfortable without just laying down.

“Why am I in a hospital gown?”

“I’m not sure. Would you like to lay another way?”

“How can I?” Her heart twinged again in her chest, and she took a deep inhale through her nose. “If I move, these… these _cuffs_ —”

“They tighten, I know. It’s not very pleasant, is it?” The man’s eyes held hers. Such a cool, steady blue. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Yes, I…”

Nothing.

How could there be nothing?

How could she _not know_?

She could feel the space all around where her name should be, but it was like an impression in the sand. A hollowed-out spot where something had once been. Her heart rate jumped again, and the man made a gentle, soothing noise. “It’s alright. It might take a few moments to remember. You’ve been sedated a lot—too much. I don’t think they’ve got a good grasp of human biology.”

“‘They’?”

“Our captors.”

“We’ve been _captured_?” From where? How? Why?

“So I assume. That or one of us has _very_ specific tastes.” He rattled his cuff just a bit, drawing her eye, and she looked back to find him smirking. His mouth was wide, framed by heavy frown lines—an expressive face. She couldn’t tell his age. His eyes seemed… sort of timeless…

Recognition flared in the back of her mind. “Do we know each other?”

But the man shook his head. “I don’t think so. Though I’m not sure my memory’s to be trusted any more than yours.”

“Strange. I almost feel as if—”

But she didn’t get to complete her thought. There was a garbled announcement that came from everywhere and nowhere, filling the air. It sounded mechanically-generated, and vaguely English, as if it’d been translated several times. “COMMUNICATE ESTABLISH. TERMINATE. CONTACT BEGIN.”

At that, she felt the cuffs loosen just slightly around her wrists. The chains loosened too, like putty. Enough that she could finally shuffle off the man and—slightly uncomfortably—lay beside him, the loops connecting them draped over his chest. When he tried to shift, his own cuffs were still inflexible.

The bed they were in was definitely clinical, and so painfully narrow that she couldn’t lay on her back, and had to press close or have her back against the rungs. “There,” the man said gently, arranging his arm around her as best he could. The smell of tea grew stronger, and she felt the curve of his ribcage against her chest. “That’s better. Have you remembered anything yet?”

She searched her mind again, trying to slow her racing thoughts in that hopes that one might catch and take hold. “I know that I was… searching for someone. I’m from very far away, farther than—I don’t know. And…” She turned to look up at the man. He had a rather severe jaw, softened only by the hair that curled down nearly to his shoulder. “I’m almost certain I know you. Or someone very like you.”

The man’s lips twitched into a thin smile. “That doesn’t seem likely. I’m not very much like anybody.”

Which reminded her—

“You said… you said, ‘human biology.’ As opposed to what?”

“Alien biology. Well, alien to you.” He sighed and looked away. “I mean non-human. It’s difficult to say.”

“Are you alien?” And she felt something in her mind—a sound like a gong, an echo, traveling through time… “I’ve asked you that before.”

She watched his face for a reaction, maybe recognition, but all he gave was a slight scrunch of his brow. “I don’t remember… Maybe it hasn’t happened yet.” 

Despite the oddness of the answer, it didn’t _feel_ odd. In fact, the longer she lay there with him, the calmer she got, and the less unusual this whole scenario started to feel. Which was unusual in and of itself. And the more she looked at him, the more sure she felt that she knew someone like him—maybe not with his face, but with his mind, his way of speaking. His soul, maybe.

She’d forgotten something. An important question. But she couldn’t remember what it was, or how to ask it. Her mind’s blankness had begun to feel less distressing than simply annoying. Huffing, she nestled closer against the man, reassured by his warmth and steadiness.

“They said ‘terminate,’” she began nervously. “Terminate what?”

“I think they don’t like us talking.”

“TERMINATE.”

The sudden voice made her flinch, and the man’s arm tightened around her. “It’s all right.” His tone was gentle, and decidedly softer. He bowed to get even closer before whispering, “I’m pretty sure we’re just under observation. I don’t speak the language very well, but when they were in here, they said something about prolonged contact. I think we’re just supposed to lay here.”

She tilted her head up and swallowed. “Lay here without talking?” He nodded. “But… what are we gonna _do_?”

“TERMINATE.”

The man dropped his head fully down to hers, pressing his lips to her hair. “We’re going to find a way out,” he breathed. “I’ve got something in my coat.” His voice was so faint, she had to strain to hear it. And when the silence fell again, it felt loud—almost a pressure against her eardrums, exacerbated by every beep of the heart monitor.

She pressed her face closer to him, until her nose was almost pressed against his chest. “Why can we only hear my heartbeat?” she whispered.

“Because I don’t have the usual setup.”

She paused, frowning. “You never answered my question. Are you—”

But again: “TERMINATE.”

God, it was so _frustrating._ Her spike of irritation played out on the monitor, and she had to breathe slowly for a long moment before she was ready to try speaking again. This time, she didn’t intend to hide her face in his side, or anything like that. She lifted herself—slowly, in case the cuffs reactivated—back over him, until her legs were on either side of his waist. She avoided his eyes and tried to keep her blush from building. How come he got to keep his clothes and his dignity, while she went knickerless, covered in scratchy, ridiculous paper?

“I promise I normally wear knickers,” she muttered, so low she wondered if he could even hear. “Kind of an off day.”

He chuckled, his stomach moving beneath her hips, and then rapidly turned the sound into a cough. He almost looked… relieved.

Still moving with painful slowness, she lowered back down, until she was draped across him, and her head was buried in his neck. His hair tickled her nose. She whispered, “How are we going to get out? You said… something in your coat? Don’t speak, just nod.” He nodded. “I seem to have more flexibility with my cuffs. Is it something I can get for you?” He hesitated, and then nodded again. His lips brushed her skin, and she tried to push the sensation of familiarity away. _Not now._

“Trousers or jacket?” He opened his mouth to answer and she quickly hissed, “Sorry. Trousers?”

He shook his head.

“Jacket?”

And he nodded.

Lifting herself to make room, she slid her hand down his chest and stomach, veering off to the side and reaching around to the left. Before she could slip her fingers into the pocket there, he rapidly shook his head. Shifting her weight onto that arm, she did the same with her right hand. Once again, he vigorously shook his head. Tension seemed to be building in him, his shoulders going stiff and his hands clenched tightly in their constraints.

Frowning, she asked, “Interior pocket?”

He nodded.

“Left?”

Another nod.

Her weight shifted again, and she tried not to rub against him, but it was getting a bit difficult. Her arms were _tired_. It had been a long day—a long week, really, and—

She froze.

“Rose,” she whispered suddenly, her hand pausing mid-journey. “My name is Rose.” The distraction must’ve been enough to let everything settle back inside her brain. She was able to pick up the pieces. “And I’m looking for the Doctor.”

She felt his smile against her shoulder, and he didn’t speak—didn’t say anything and risk additional scolding from their mysterious overseers. But, slow and deliberate, he nodded.

Her fingers tightened involuntarily, gripping his shirt between them. “Doctor,” she choked out, barely breathing. And as she spoke his name, the beeping filling the room sped up. “You’ve got the sonic.”

The Doctor’s smile grew even wider, and for a moment, Rose felt like the cleverest girl in the universe. She let her eyes slip closed, and she pressed her nose contentedly into the Doctor’s shoulder. He smelled like the TARDIS library—like the steam rising off a cup of tea, and like the sharp tang of time, and hundreds of thousands of books. He smelled like _home_. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” she rasped. “God, for two years. You’re the first you I’ve come across. But you’re…” She felt the tears and tried to stop them, blinking them back. It became exponentially more difficult when the Doctor, delicate as anything, nuzzled his nose against her, back and forth, right where the hospital gown gave way to bare skin. It felt as comforting as a kiss.

“But you really don’t know me?”

He shook his head.

“I must’ve come too early,” Rose breathed. “ _Doctor_.” She wanted to say how glad she was, how she’d felt as if she’d gone two years without oxygen and this was her first real breath. Her heart beat wildly now, unable to keep a reign on her raging emotions. The beeping was a distracting buzz, but all that felt impossibly distant. He was here. She’d _found_ him.

He turned his face fully into her, then and whispered against her throat, “Rose. Deep breath. The sonic.”

“Right,” she nodded slightly. Her next inhale was shaky, and she still felt on the cusp of tears, but she kept control of herself. And gradually, her fingers made their way deep into his pocket—impossibly large, of course, and full of suspicious nonsense—until they wrapped around the familiar shape of the sonic. “Got it.”

She tried to make her motions look sensual, like intentional contact, since that appeared to be the point of this whole experiment. She slid the sonic flat under the palm of her hand and dragged it down his arm, to the place where their cuffs were linked around the copper bar. “When I release you,” she mumbled, barely aloud, “don’t move your hand. Wait ‘til I’ve done both, yeah?”

The Doctor nodded, his curls shaking with the motion.

And a grin split her face just from the pleasure of seeing him, different body or no.

She unlocked his cuff with a dull click, and then froze, waiting for some kind of response from the room or whoever was outside it. When nothing happened, she deftly twisted the sonic and unlocked her own. Still grinning, she repeated the process of gliding across his body, swapping the sonic to her other hand, and unlocking their cuffs.

And when she looked back at his face, the Doctor was watching her, brows furrowed with concentration. Like he was committing her to memory.

“Ready?” she asked.

His mouth hitched into a smile. And, at full volume, he said, “Oh, yes.”

“TERMINATE.”

The pair sprang into action, Rose leaping up off of him and over to a promising-looking locker, which she used the sonic to unlock right as a shrill siren started going off.

“I’ll terminate _something,_ that’s for sure,” she griped, quickly digging through vacuum-sealed bags until she found her clothes. “Do I have time to change?”

The Doctor’s laugh was bright. “Sure, but I don’t know why you’d bother. Hospital blue suits you.” When she turned to glare at him, his eyes were twinkling. She practically ripped the bag open and hurried into her jeans. Rather than fussing with her shirt and bra, she simply slid her trusty blue jacket over the gown and zipped it up, feeling in the pocket for her hopper. With a sigh of relief, she found it still there.

“No time for shoes,” she sang just as the door to their room—cell?—burst open. “Why is it _always_ blokes with guns?” And then, she turned back to the locker where, propped upright against the very back, was her own weapon, trusty and true. How confident must they have been, she wondered, to store it there in the room with them?

With a shrug, she slung it over her shoulder and swung back around, tossing the sonic back to the Doctor in a smooth movement. He caught it, despite his gaping mouth and wide-eyed stare. “Listen, lads,” she began, holding her gun with both hands. “Let’s not get out the rulers. I’ve really got the biggest one you can get.”

The Doctor made a strangled noise.

And Rose—whose heartbeat was now soaring through the room, singing as loud and reckless as the siren—winked at him. “You’ll find out later.”

He didn’t need to know she’d never actually _shot_ anything with it. It was merely an aggressive—and effective—negotiation tactic. Hadn’t failed her yet.

It didn’t that day, either.

-

She ran for the TARDIS, bare feet pelting against the hot copper streets. She didn’t care that she’d lost her shoes, or that she couldn’t tell how long they’d been locked up. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t stay. She was going home.

And the doors opened to greet her.


	10. Second Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Tentoo actually does have that second heart, Regeneration sickness hits him just after the Tardis leaves him and Rose on that beach."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

The TARDIS faded, taking with it that familiar, grinding wail, until there was nothing but an echo on the beach. He wondered if that might be the last time he ever heard it—the dematerialization sequence. The yawning cry of his ancient and beloved ship. Even _supposing_ Donna’s calculations were correct— _supposing_ they could somehow jump-start the growth of another TARDIS, which was, in his estimation, rather an enormous supposition—TARDIS coral was tender stuff. Extremely prone to shocking. Almost alarmingly easy to kill, if it wasn’t tended to correctly. 

Sort of like a human, actually.

Sort of like him.

“Doctor?”

Rose’s voice pulled him from his reverie, and he felt immediately that he ought to have been paying more attention to her, to what was in front of him now, as opposed to what had been disappearing before his eyes. He looked down at her, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. He gave her a smile—hopefully a good one, even a convincing one. But his entire body felt like an exposed nerve, and the effort of trying not to think of this, his own self, his life with Rose, as a _trade_ made his head throb. One friend for another: one old and enduring—the other young and invigorating. One body for another: one strong, but shatter-prone—the other made to last a lifetime. A human lifetime.

“Doctor.”

He blinked, Rose's face swimming into view. “Sorry. Lots to think about. For example, are there any nibbles about? I’m famished.”

Rose’s mouth fell open, and then snapped shut. Her whole face seemed to work with the effort of thinking of an answer. But then, she’d always been so beautifully transparent. Emotive in the extreme. Even a dull-headed Time Lord with his mind a million miles away could see what she was feeling, could draw something like the right conclusions. For example, right now, she was in shock. And she was trying desperately to seem like she wasn’t in shock. And she was also a tinge worried. About him, probably.

He should do something about that.

He didn’t.

Instead, he collapsed.

So much for not making her worry.

-

There was a shrill sound. Like a siren, or a stressed out mum. “Should we take him to a hospital?”

Someone scoffing—Rose. He'd recognize her voice anywhere. “We can’t. He’s not human.” _Good point, Rose, well done._ His Rose. Always so clever.

“But he said—”

“I _know_ what he said!”

"What about Torchwood?" A male voice. Pete.

"Unless you can get us an airlift, it won't matter. You remember last time, Mum." Rose still sounded worried. And no wonder—he'd gone and fainted on her! Well, not _literally_ on her. But close. "He was out for hours. This looks like the same thing—sweating, restless, unconscious…" He heard her heavy sigh. "It's regeneration sickness."

Everything went quiet.

And he wondered, _Is she right?_ But he didn't have time to wonder very long. The burning started.

-

At some point, he felt something soft beneath him—pillowy. It cradled his head and neck. And there was a cool hand in his hair. He hoped it was Rose. When he felt soft lips, he knew.

And then she whispered, "If you can hear me, I need you to know… I'm sorry."

He wanted to say, "For what?" But he didn't say anything. Or rather, he couldn't. He groaned, and Rose's hand resumed stroking. He resumed burning.

-

The process of getting the second heart going was a bit difficult.

Difficult, but not impossible.

And Rose held him while it struggled, violent and unwanted, to beat.

-

He woke up in a hotel room. The air smelled less salty, so he knew they were inland. It was seventeen minutes past four in the afternoon, and thirty seconds, thirty-one, thirty-two… and so on, relative time. And for a moment—for approximately three seconds—he _loathed_ knowing those things. The information felt extraneous, unimportant. An additional tax on his tired system.

For another three seconds, he mourned the loss of his human life. It had ended before it began, really. He wondered what he might've been, if he'd been given an end date to work towards. What his life might've looked like.

He had been prepared to be what Rose needed. An entirely new man… 

And then he smelled the sandwiches.

His eyes flew open. He was alone in the room, but the shower was running—probably Rose, he thought happily. She'd no doubt left the sandwiches and—he grinned, cheeks dimpling—there was tea, too! Strong, stiff black tea, just the way he liked it, with a mountain of sugar.

He drank his tea and ate his sandwiches, and he stared out the window at the low, rolling hills, pondering what exactly he was going to do now that he had forever again.

Interestingly, the answer remained largely unchanged. He was going to grow a TARDIS. He was going to travel as much as possible. He was going to tell Rose he loved her every single day. Maybe twice on Sundays. Or—who was he kidding? As often as she could bear to hear it.

He was just beginning a list of _Appropriate Times To Say "I Love You"_ when Rose came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a red, fluffy towel. Her damp hair clung to her cheeks and neck, and royal blue polish tipped her toes. He'd watched her paint her nails a hundred times on the TARDIS, and the intimacy of her bare feet felt like an unexpected gift. One he maybe didn’t deserve anymore.

She was just so lovely, it made his hearts ache. 

It was a familiar feeling, that ache, but he knew how to appease it now.

Her eyes blinked wide. "Oh! I didn't know—" 

"I love you," the Doctor interrupted. "I thought you should know. Again. Also, thanks for the sandwiches."

Rose's cheeks went progressively pinker, and a smile started creeping over her face as he spoke. By the time he stood up and went to her, her hand—the one not holding her towel to her body, fist clenched in a tight ball—clapped over her mouth, trying to hide her pearly white teeth and her sunburst smile.

"I don't want you to be sorry. I have everything I want here in this world. And I will do whatever it takes to keep it." _To keep you._

But then, he already had a hunch.

He stood in front of her, determined to be a new man.

Because he was. He was a man with a thousand human lifetimes before and behind him; a man who was currently earthbound, but would be called among the stars again. He was an alien with two hearts and a time sense and who looked the same as a man who had broken her heart. But he was still _a new man._

He may not have been the single-hearted human his other self believed him to be, but he was still determined to be what Rose needed. He could do that well enough, binary vascular system or no.

The Doctor reached out and pulled Rose's hand from her face. With all the love two hearts could hold, he leaned down and kissed her.


	11. The garden where all beauties be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Lotsofthinkythoughts  
> Prompt: "Another Prompt for you friend: Forest Nymph Rose Tyler, in her floral house meeting a poor lost adventurer Doctor of your choosing (bonus points for including a reference to other companions as her 'sisters' because they're also nymphs just of different kinds)"  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose

The hour was late when he stumbled through her gate.

He should not have been able. He should not have been close enough to throw stones, let alone to wander in with his hulking human footsteps, leaving muddy tracks through her garden. But it little mattered what should and should not have been; the fact remained that he came in the night.

She had duties to attend to before bed. Small things. Strengthening the stems of her night-bloomers. Wishing a good evening to her moonflowers and rain lilies. Reminding the lilacs to save some sweetness for the morning. In a garden this size, one could spend all night wandering and only return to the house come dawn. But it was late, and Rose was tired.

(She could be forgiven, then, for her reaction.)

She gave a final _adieu_ to the evening primroses.

(If he had only called out—)

(But he did not. He caught her by surprise. And so she was most ungracious.)

He came into the little clearing. The space between her home and her garden, filled with tidy grass and a hutch, where she kept her cow, Beau. She was just wishing her bovine companion good night when the man appeared. He came out of the mist, and through her garden—one moment shrouded and silent, and the next with all the rumpus of those who walk heavy on the earth.

He was large. Tall. Towering. It made her feel afraid.

“Who are you?” Rose demanded, trying not to sound fearful. But her body betrayed her, as did her power. He was so close to her plants, to her friends. He stepped toward her, arms outstretched—no doubt, he meant to tread carefully—but the vines went to him before her sense did, tangling around his dirty boots. Holding him fast. She was stronger than she knew. The vines hurried upward in a tangled bramble, shapely and spiked. “Don’t move another step.” Her voice shook.

The man spoke. “I couldn’t even if I wished to.”

He had a very human voice. Some call their sounds rough, or harsh. Unnatural.

But Rose could not bring herself to think so.

His voice was earthy—it reminded her of sweet, loamy soil, overturned and exposed. And yes, he was gruff. He sounded unused to speaking.

“Who are you?”

“A tired traveler, too long on the road.” It didn’t sound like a lie.

She approached, her footsteps soft and even and _right_ on the ground. How humans got around in such hard-soled bodies was beyond her. But then, much of their world was.

She stopped at the border where garden met grass, her body between him and the cottage.

“Why are you in my garden?”

The traveler did not answer immediately. 

(And so, perhaps, she can be forgiven for this, too.)

Her vines reared back, as if in threat. Or, not as if—they were impossible to mistake. Thorns have a purpose in a garden, and so did they in her power. The spikes sharpened, lengthened into spears, and they pressed against his chest. Against where, she had heard, the human heart lay.

“Tell me,” she pressed. Her thorns pressed. Her fear _pressed._

“Because I am lost, lady, and your flowers bloomed so brightly.”

She looked over his shoulder, at his path. The bootprints were easy to spot. And admittedly, he had not crushed anything. 

Unconscious of doing so, she smiled at her flowering friends. At the trembling-overflowing-with-life-vernal-softness of it all. Even in the dark, the garden did emit its own sort of light. He had seen it as a beacon? A guide, perhaps, to light his way in this moonless night.

It should not have been possible.

(But it was.)

Her vines began to loosen. She watched as the man shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “You can come,” she said. “You can stay. For one night, only.” She held up one finger.

In the darkness, he smiled and his teeth gleamed lily-white.

“To whom do I owe my thanks?”

Her head tilted. “To me.”

The man laughed, and it was a good sound. Like something shooting up out of the ground, though perhaps out of season.

“And what am I to call you, lady?”

Rose turned on her heel, and with a delicate flick of her fingers, the vines gave way. They reshaped, rounded into a bush. And from it, blooms. Pink and sweet. 

Roses.

-

The man slept late. At least, later than she, for morning was her busiest time. She needed to oversee the distribution of dew drops, and bid good day to everything in the garden. Everything that needed her attention, that is. Many of her green-growing friends were better off left alone.

Some beings were like that.

But dawn was just coming to greet her when she remembered—

She had forgotten to ask his name.

-

He met her in the garden, and it was under the bright sunlight that she finally got a good look at him. She could see well enough in the dark, but human faces were harder to make out. Muddy, somehow. There was no _glow._ In the sun, she could see the real shape of things.

She was pleased to see he’d shed his shoes. He walked like her now, in looks if not in lightness. And she was equally gratified with his appreciation of her garden. There was nothing false in him, it seemed. He was what he was, and he seemed to look at the world the same way.

She imagined that might be hard for him. As a human.

He complimented her cornflowers. He bid good morning to her bluebells, and said hello to the honeysuckles. And when he made it to the heart of her garden, where her prized flowers grew, he kept a respectful distance. He watched her tend them with a careful eye, and did not speak. The last to receive her morning attention was a very large, sweet bud in the very center of her garden's heart. 

“She is rare,” she explained to him. “And a gift from a sister. I care for her as I would any of my sisters.” She stroked one of the plant’s sparse leaves with the tip of her finger, and watched it darken. “Soon, she will bloom, I think. It will be very exciting, as it’s a rather infrequent and lovely occurrence. And my sisters will come.”

The man’s face furrowed, an expression of concern. It made the places where dust had gathered on him stand out—the creases and folds. Around his eyes were feathers of age and exhaustion. He needed a wash, she decided. She would take him to the stream—

“Do they often come?”

Rose did not have an answer.

He pressed. Like fingers into earth, he _pressed_. “Are you often alone?”

She turned back to her princess of the night, and wondered if the plant might like to be seen blooming by human eyes. 

If he might, perhaps, stay one more night.

Feeding him would be a bit of trouble, of course. But then, surely some of the vegetables in the garden were ready. Perhaps even some of the grown-up plants could be persuaded to give up their leaves. The fruit trees could be asked for offerings. And she could slow his hunger. 

But she wondered how long it would be, before he needed more. Before he had no appetite for the things she could give him.

“Not tonight,” she answered, flippant. “Come inside.”

-

After a wash in the cold stream and what was probably, for him, a very light supper, the traveler settled down to sleep on her little pallet. His body was too long for it, so he curled himself tight as a fiddlehead fern. Even his fingers clenched in sleep. The new moon slipped through the window and stroked his cheeks. It could almost pass for glowing; she could make out the shapes and hollows well enough.

Or perhaps it was just familiarity.

Still, she slipped outside to sleep in the garden again.

She was on the cusp of unconsciousness when the thought returned—she still did not know his name.

-

The next morning, her sisters began arriving to prepare for the night blooming. 

The traveler had woken earlier than the previous morning and trailed her out to the garden, asking if he could be of service. She eyed his large hands and long legs and thought that— _maybe, perhaps_ —he could reach some of the apples in the orchard.

Though he _could_ reach many apples, the traveler only took what was clearly offered. In a show of good manners, he picked only the ripest fruits, heavy enough nearly to break their own stems and fall. When he had gathered as much as she bid, he ate happily from the fallen fruits on the ground, even the ones split and dripping. Though he did not take what was already claimed by the bees.

Good manners, indeed.

Rose watched him lick his fingers and settle happily on the ground, his back against the bark. She cautiously sat beside him, and when she looked out of the corner of her eye, she knew he was watching her.

She turned to face him. "Why do you look that way?" _Like a cat in the sun._

His gaze did not waver. "Your garden is the loveliest thing I've ever seen." But he had no eyes for her garden. The traveler looked only at her.

Rose blushed a pretty pink.

That was how her sisters found them.

-

"But where is he from?" asked Belladonna, her face suspicious and tight. "How did he make it past your wards? A traveler, indeed! There are no roads nearby!" 

"Donna," Martha chided, "do not pester her." Rose looked to her sister with gratitude, but she was occupied with picking herbs. Rose grew the best healing plants, they always said, but only Martha knew how to use them. She was perhaps the most well-versed in human ways, and therefore the least frightened by Rose's traveler. Martha had greeted him kindly before begging his pardon and making for the garden, all her sisters in tow.

Donna's expression was practically withering, obviously displeased. But sweet, gentle Astrid sought to calm their sister's temper. "Perhaps he was lost in the woods," she offered, "and perhaps the mothers showed him the way. It has been known to happen." She turned on Rose with vivid cheeks and a keen interest. "Your very own traveler! What is he called?"

Rose bit her lip. "I have not asked."

At that, her sisters looked up in shock; even Martha was surprised.

"I keep forgetting," she admitted. "It does not seem so important."

"Not _important_? But you—" 

A sharp look from Martha quieted Donna's protestations.

"Rose," Martha began gently, "there is a reason why we ask for names. For humans, all things come as an exchange. Power for protection, for safety. What you are doing is unbalanced." She plucked a sprig of lavender and placed it in her basket, pursing her lips before continuing. "He has been invited, so your power cannot touch him and now _you_ are the one left unprotected."

"But I do not _need_ protecting!" Rose cried. "He has done me no harm. He likes my garden!"

Her sisters exchanged glances. Only Astrid smiled with her usual temperate innocence. "I'm sure he does," she said kindly. "It is very beautiful."

"And yet," Donna said, eyeing a divot in the earth. Bean-shaped and about Rose’s size, a remnant of her slumbering body. Two nights of burrowing. "You will not sleep under the same roof."

Rose felt something flare in her chest. “I will tonight. I know I am safe.” She nodded, and a pulse flowed out from her like a strong wind. The leaves on the nearby trees shuddered. “You will see.”

-

They did not see. Not that night.

That night, they waited under the moon while the princess of the night opened her petals, gently coaxed by Rose’s soft words and brushes of magic. It was the work of mere moments. And to her pleasure, her sisters were kinder to the traveler once Rose had made her declaration. They made a space for him, so he could see the flower bloom. He was so tall—towering over the gathered women, and over the blossom.

His eye was easy to catch.

And then he did not look away. Not even when the moonlight poured over the pearl-white petals, the center glowing like a starburst in miniature. Not even when the fairies came fluttering from their burrows, drawn to the gentle incandescence of this rare blossom. His eyes held hers. Like they had under the tree, when he had run his tongue over his bottom lip.

Rose found herself wondering if he would taste like fruit.

The night began its descent toward dawn, and her sisters paid their respects to the night queen and made for their own homes, offering only final, curious looks at Rose’s traveler. They parted, each going her way: west, east, and south. The traveler too turned his back, and walked toward her home—north. The midnight flowers climbing her cottage walls stretched their faces toward him, blush and yellow and violet and white. They wore their interest plainly. 

Rose was more coy. 

She waited a few moments; she watched the night queen bloom persistently, though nobody was watching. Nobody but Rose.

The fragrant blossom would be gone by morning. She would droop and dry without witness. Such was her way, and though Rose could make her do otherwise, she would not. For the bloom had basked in her blessed moments, watched by the sisters, and by the traveler, and by the fairies, and by the moon. But she was weary now, and she seemed all too eager for Rose to go, so she might rest in peace. 

“Goodnight, sister,” Rose whispered. And the petals stretched in answer, like dismissive fingers. She smiled as she left the night queen behind and made for her little cottage. 

-

The traveler was not lying on the pallet, but standing at the window, looking out—but not at her garden. He looked beyond it, into the dark woodline beyond. Perhaps even farther than that. His face was furrowed again. He looked tired, like he had that first night.

He did not hear her footsteps. She had to touch his shoulder before he turned, ripping his gaze from the black line of trees. He looked down at her. He smiled. “Rose,” he said softly.

“I offered you one night,” she began carefully. “But you are still here.”

“Do you wish me to leave?”

“No!” The answer was hurried and sharp, striking the rafters. “You are welcome to stay… as long as you would wish.” Her eyes searched his. She knew her words were a risk. She was offering something without asking for something in return—bad form with humans. But what else was there? He liked her garden. Rose liked him. He could stay, if he wanted.

But did he want?

“Rose,” he spoke again, and she felt a pulling, stretching feeling deep in her body. He said her name in a way her sisters did not—as if he had planted the word inside himself. It sounded almost torn from him. Reluctant to leave. “Why do you not ask my name? Is that not the normal way, with your kind?”

She paused. “Do you want to tell me?”

“You answer a question with another question.”

She had no answer to that. Nothing clever. Her footsteps took her away, toward the kitchen window. The soft scent of jasmine trailed in through the cracked glass. “You have only taken what was offered,” she said. “I will do the same. I need no power over you; you are in your own power.” Rose had no energy for speeches, but she tried all the same.

Her back remained to him as he approached, his footsteps lighter than before. But she could still make out each step. She smiled at his hesitation. He had learned to tread carefully.

“And if I…” He paused. “I can think of worse things than to be under your power. To be kept here.”

But Rose spun, eyes flashing. “I would _never_ keep you! Nor any living thing that wanted to leave!” Her hand formed a fist on her hip. “Even Beau can come and go when he pleases. I think—” and she turned furiously for something to do, to vent out her anger. The leftover sage from dinner withered where it lay, shriveled, grey, and frost-tipped against the dark wood. “I think it is _cruel_ to use power that way. _That_ is a word I have learned from humans. But my world is growth; it is _change._ I wouldn’t—”

“Rose,” he said again, stepping closer. His hands dropped to her shoulders. And she stilled. “You misunderstand me.” He looked down at her with his deep blue eyes. “My name is John.”

She felt that same tug beneath her ribcage. Her whole being, reaching for him.

“John,” she repeated.

He shuddered. “Tell me to stay.” His hands slid down her arms until his fingers brushed hers. They were rougher than hers, but impossibly soft. The caress. The intent behind it. All soft.

She shook her head. “I will not.”

“Please.” He spoke seriously. But how could he _want_ to be bound to her, to her little home and field and garden? How could a traveler—how could _John_ —be content to make his world so small?

She’d heard so many stories of humans. They were greedy. Hungry. Searching. They had eyes that shone, reflecting gold and diamonds and precious things. They would burn any forest, uproot every garden, if it meant they would have their way. They tread heavily, without respect. Their lives were short and burning. Like kindling.

But her traveler was none of those things.

“John,” she said softly, “I command only this: That you stay as long as you wish.” The words fell heavy from her mouth, weighed down with the power she had been given. That he had restored to her. “That you take from this place what you need. That you ask of me what you desire. And that the burdens that brought you here slide from your back, never to return.” As she spoke, she twined her fingers with his, letting the callouses brush her soft skin. “That is what I command.”

His hand tightened around hers, and it was hot. Human. But it did not burn her.

She stepped closer until the scent of him—of earth and clear water—overpowered the jasmine. Until she could hear his heartbeat. And then she was pulled to him in her entirety. Flush. His arms had wrapped around her, and he buried his face in her hair. He _pressed._ “Thank you,” he whispered. “Rose… _Rose_.” When his racing heart slowed, he lifted his head again and looked down into her eyes. His own were damp; he had watered his tears into her hair.

She smiled up at her traveler—her John. And when he bowed his head to place a kiss on her petal-soft lips, he did indeed taste like fruit. Like fresh apples. Like something grown in her very own garden.


	12. Something With A Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Vi-the-former-seaturtle  
> Prompt: "Your fics are so good!! If you still want prompts how about something like Rose wants Tentoo to tell her a story with a happy ending? Idk I feel like that be really cute."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

The stars overhead felt very distant tonight.

Some nights, Rose didn’t mind it—not being out there in the middle of it all. Some nights, she felt that everything was very nearly perfect here on her little earth. But some nights, the old ache came back.

He felt it, too. There was no way he couldn’t. He was a being made from stardust, more so than anyone.

“Doctor,” she whispered, low so as not to break the stillness. And she turned her face to his. If the words carried too far, they would get lost out in the universe, when only he was meant to hear them.

He was already looking at her. A night sky full of stars, and he was looking at _her._ Ridiculous man.

He turned fully onto his side, observing her intently. The sleeping bag rumpled noisily beneath him.

“Will you tell me a story?” she asked, nosing closer to him. “Something with a happy ending.”

He knew what she was asking for, of course. For they were happy—they were together and couldn’t be otherwise—but for them, there was no ending. There was only one day followed by the next, an endless stream of linear time, one step taken after another on one single, solitary planet.

The Doctor nodded. “All right. Close your eyes.”

Rose obeyed. And the Doctor began. “There once was a creature. Nobody would make the mistake of calling him a man. And in the vastness of the universe, he was completely, utterly alone…”

-

_There once was a creature. Nobody would make the mistake of calling him a man. And in the vastness of the universe, he was completely, utterly alone. Not by choice, and not because he was set apart. Merely because he lived his very long, very lonely life with one foot on the ground and another in the stars, perpetually straddling the line between what he wanted and where he felt he ought to be. The living land called Earth beckoned to him, time after time—but he would never stay. Always he returned to the distant stars, and to his isolation._

_He did this, I imagine, because being a living thing among other living things can be quite painful. There are so many chances to make mistakes. And the man had already made enough mistakes in his life. Big ones. He thought himself incapable of surviving more, and it was his duty to survive. He was the only creature of his kind left to do so. And so, he ran away._

_He ran far, and he ran fast—faster than any bird or plane or zeppelin or starship. He roamed widely, doing good where he could, and stopping evil where he could do no good. He tried to be clever, and he rarely failed. He tried to be kind, and he often failed. Mostly, he was lonely._

_But time and again, he felt the summons. It was a call like a song, a howling. Ancient and distant, something bid him return to the Earth, the place which was not his home, but tried so hard to be. It said, “If you only come back, you will find what you’re looking for.” And so, the creature followed the voice that pulled him across the stars and back to a small, blue planet where he had often visited before…_

-

Eyes blinking open, she saw that the Doctor was looking at her, his eyes unfocused. He looked, but didn’t see her. 

Rose lifted her hand and placed it in his hair. It was so long now—spilling down over his eyes, not nearly as able to defy gravity as it had once been. He was due for a trim, but the Doctor still loathed hairdressers. Whether it was his innate fear of Jackie Tyler or his own vanity that made it so, he was resistant to having anyone but Rose touch his hair. So, she let her fingers drift soothingly through the soft strands.

The Doctor blinked, a tiny smile twitching onto his lips.

“Go on,” she whispered.

-

_When he arrived on Earth, the creature met a human. Oh, he’d met loads of humans before, and assuredly he would meet more. The little blue planet was, after all, a place where humans lived. But the human he met on that visit was… quite different. Oh, she looked very humany-wumany, with her human-gold hair and human-brown eyes and her human-pink cheeks, always flushing with blood when she got the least bit angry. But what made her different… was how she looked at the creature._

_So many before had looked at the creature, and saw him for what he was, and wished he was a man. Some had even gone so far as to pretend he_ was _a man. Humans do have that tendency, you know—to willfully misunderstand things. And many more had turned their backs and run, knowing that creatures do all sorts of things, like eating hearts for fun and setting fires and destroying the things that bother them. But this human refused to do so._

_She saw the creature, and she said, “All right. You are a creature. What would you like to eat?”_

_And the creature answered, “I am not hungry. Only humans feel hunger. I am above that sort of thing.”_

_The human girl laughed, because she knew what the creature did not: that all living things desire something, in the end. Whether they hunger or thirst, whether they crave violence or peace—they will search and search until they find it._

_Wandering the stars, completely alone, if need be._

-

The Doctor had started to get wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, Rose noticed. Little fault lines in his features that he’d never developed before, when he wasn’t human. They crinkled up pleasantly when he smiled. They blurred his features a bit _—_ features which had once been sharp and bright. He was softened by them. 

The brown of his irises seemed warmer when framed so delicately.

Or perhaps, it was just the way he looked at her.

-

 _The human girl asked him every day what he wanted to eat. Rain or shine, warm or cold, Earth-bound or loose among the stars. She asked him over and over again a question which he had not permitted anyone—least of all himself—to ask. She asked him, time and time again, “What would you like to eat? What do you_ want _?” At first, the creature did not know the answer to such a complicated question. He had rather an agile mind, yes, but what sort of a selfish, human question was that?_ “What do you want?” _The creature shook his head, and refused to answer._

_Still, she persisted. That is something else that humans are terribly good at, and which creatures such as the one in our story are capable of—though they loathe to try. They would much rather be wild and irregular. Still, the girl asked and asked, and eventually, he had to answer._

_He couldn’t give just any answer. No, he had to say something truthful. He had to say what he desired most._

_The creature stomped his giant foot and it rattled across space. “I want to be a man!” he finally roared. “I am tired of belonging nowhere, and having claws, and looking into faces that fear me! I want to be a man, and live like humans do!” And while he cried out in his rage, the human girl stood still and looked into his foreign face. She waited for him to finish with his shouting, and then she took him by the hand._

_She said, “Humans can have claws, too, you know. Maybe not like yours. But they can be brutal and unkind and lonely. They can be ugly and evil and much worse than you. You aren’t the way you are because you’re a creature—it’s because you’re afraid.”_

_“Afraid of what?” the creature grumped, for he_ was _terribly grumpy about having all his soft and squishy bits exposed to a little human girl._

_“Of everything.”_

_And the creature realized that she was right. He’d been running for such a long time that he had turned it into a game, but the fact remained that he was running. And so, he stopped. Or at least, he slowed. And the girl held his hand while he practiced taking the slow path—the path of humanity. And they walked together._

_Things were difficult, of course. A creature was still a creature, and a human was still a human, and sometimes the bumps in their road felt like mountains. But they walked together. Even when their paths split and they could no longer go hand in hand, they were together. Because the creature had a hunger. And the girl had a hunger. And it was the same, no matter how much space fell between them._

-

The Doctor’s hand twined with hers. His thumb rubbed a soothing rhythm over her palm, and Rose felt another, even more familiar ache building in her belly. A love too large to contain.

-

_When their paths rejoined, the human girl found that the creature was no longer a creature. He was a human. A man, like he’d always wanted to be. And she looked into his humany-wumany face, and she smiled. Not because he was a particularly good or beautiful man, but because… he was what she’d always known he could be. He was exactly as he desired._

_And the creature-turned-man found that the girl had changed, too. She_ was _a particularly good and beautiful woman. Her face was brighter, more brilliant than he’d remembered. And she was strong, from walking so long beside such a brutal thing and—unknowing, of course—protecting it from the world. She was…_

-

But Rose never found out the ending for the human girl and her creature. She pulled the Doctor close and pressed her lips to his, breathing in the quiet night and the cold air and the smell of home that she always carried with her. She kissed him until they both forgot the ending.

Which is just as well. 

Because some stories never end.


	13. Tell me where the wind blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Bonnielass23  
> Prompt: "If you still want prompts. I just listened to Where Do We Go by Lindsey Stirling featuring Carah Faye, and it gave me dimension hopping Rose vibes."  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose-ish

—foot-first into a puddle. _Of course._ She landed with her usual lack of grace, ankles giving way on the uneven ground, arms pinwheeling for stability. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, but once they did, her gut twisted.

And not because she was on the edge of a cliff.

Well, not _just_ because.

Her whole body rebelled; she fought the instinct to slam her fist down on the hopper’s walkie and _demand_ they pull her back. Her hand was halfway there before she remembered to stop it. That she had been following a signal. That she was here for a _reason._

But she was _here._ And she knew—she knew for indisputable fact—that he was not.

Rose stood on the precipice, overlooking the sea. The path was damp with salt-water, irregular and difficult to tread, threatening to tilt her right over the cliffside and into the grey, churning water. They’d come in a car before, so she hadn’t walked this path. But she knew it anyway, as well as she knew the spot of beach she was poised above. Nothing had changed; it could be the very same day, for how similar it all appeared.

She scanned the beach below for tire tracks, for signs of recent disturbance, but there was nothing to be found. Only the roar of the waves, and the shrill gull-cries, and her sodden boots beneath her feet. She was probably the only living thing for miles, saving the fish and gulls and little sand crabs.

The chilled sea air whipped her hair, and she struggled to take a deep lungful. The salt-smell was strong, and cold in her lungs. Despite herself, she felt invigorated. “So,” she said aloud, “what signal am I following, way out here?” The only answer was the wind.

So she began walking.

And as she walked down toward the water, her mind cleared.

This couldn’t be _her_ beach. Aside from the obvious—no mud tracks or kicked-up sand, even on the little-used trail—the hopper didn’t _work_ that way; it was specifically designed _not_ to lock onto anything generated from within their universe. It’s power source—her jiggered and pokered-up mobile—wasn’t _capable_ of connecting to local signals. Which meant… she was in a parallel _Dårlig Ulv-Stranden_.

She hadn’t even been sure it would exist in the proper universe. Actually, she’d long since decided that, if it _did_ exist in her old world, she would find it—with the Doctor by her side. They’d reclaim it. They’d stand there and they’d take a deep breath of ocean air and they’d find something to laugh about until their lungs ached. They would hold hands. Nothing would separate them: not even this beach.

That had been the plan.

But now she was back, and alone. Again.

_So, why was she here?_

There must have been something to find. Perhaps some link to the TARDIS? Some artifact that would lead her to the Doctor? But she walked until the grass turned to stone turned to sand, and she found nothing. Only the constant, unrelenting howl of the wind and the pain that lived perpetually within her chest. It throbbed in time with her footsteps. _Not here, not here, not here._

When she made it to the beach, she walked straight toward where the Doctor had stood. There would be no indentation in the sand, of course. No footprints to follow. He’d never stood on this beach; he’d been somewhere else, a million billion miles away.

But she was wrong. 

There _were_ footprints. 

They were hard to see, because there was no real trail leading to or from them. But they were still there, if faded. Footprints. One set, faint on the sand, as if the wind had blown and blurred away most of the detail. But she could make out the little diamonds left by a pair of plimsolls. The soles of his shoes? _Surely not._

And then, her eyes widened. Just behind, less than a foot away—a large, faint square. The barest of indents, like something had been set down lightly, gently. Carefully.

Her eyes filled with tears. A box. A TARDIS-sized box.

He had been here. 

Looking for her? What had he found? It didn’t matter. Rose’s thoughts raced. He was _looking_ for her. She’d said it a hundred times to her mum, insisting, “He wouldn’t just give up. He didn’t get to say—he never finished—he’ll come back. He’ll find a way.” And then, with her shoulders squared, she’d said, “And if he doesn’t find a way, _I will_.”

The pulsing ache under her ribcage turned into a thrill of adrenaline. Energy rushed through her like the tide, wave after wave, wiping away her languishing sadness. _That’s just useless,_ she told herself. _I can’t waste time with wallowing. The Doctor is looking for me._

That was what she was meant to find, she realized—what she’d always believed, but needed to truly know.

 _The Doctor is looking for me. And I’m looking for him. We_ will _find each other._

If she believed in one thing, just one thing… she believed in that.


	14. What Happened To The Wookiees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "in which star wars is very different in Pete's world. tentoo is not amused."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

It was about developing new routines.

For example, on Tuesdays, they made tacos. Taco Tuesday didn’t explicitly exist in their new universe, but the Doctor had never been one to pass over a good alliteration opportunity. And Rose… she just liked tacos. A woman of taste, she considered herself.

On Thursdays, they went to Pete and Jackie’s for dinner. The Doctor didn’t fancy that bit of their routine so much, but he made the best of it. It became something of a tradition for the Doctor to wear new, increasingly mad outfits to the Tyler Mansion and see if Jackie blew a gasket.

And on Fridays, they watched a film. There were stipulations to their movie viewings, of course. It had to be something that either a) had not existed in their home universe, or b) was substantially different from the version they were familiar with. An opportunity for a laugh, and to poke fun at the place where they’d been unceremoniously stranded together, and to remember a different world that had once been their playground.

On this particular Friday, they were watching Star Wars. _A New Hope_. The beginning of it all. It seemed appropriate, really, on the three month anniversary of their—well, whatever it was. Reunion. Mutual abandonment?

Beginning.

That was it.

Their very own beginning.

The pair of them had nestled onto their plush, secondhand couch—purchased, of course, because it reminded Rose of the one in the TARDIS library—with a giant bowl of popcorn, and the highest of hopes for an amusing evening. But Rose’s hopes rapidly spiraled as she watched the Doctor become increasingly agitated about the (apparently) multitudinous changes to the franchise.

“But where have the Wookiees gone?”

“There aren’t any, apparently.” Rose answered, munching happily. “Never have been.”

“But then—” She could see the moment when his brain stalled. “But… Chewie’s an Ewok.”

“Yep,” she replied, popping the “p.”

“But how could _anyone_ be intimidated by an Ewok?!”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Tiny sniper? Death by teddy bear? Seems sort of scary.”

The Doctor harrumphed.

“They can fit into all sorts of small spaces, probably,” Rose mused. “Excellent for sniping. Or ambushes. Or breaking somebody’s ankles...”

And then he glanced at her, brows raised. “ _You’re_ sort of scary, you know that?”

“Yep,” she responded pleasantly, taking another giant handful of popcorn. “But that’s why you love me.”

His arm tightened around her like it always did when she reminded him. It was reflexive, really, so she maybe shouldn’t have found it so rewarding. But she cuddled closer anyway, and burrowed her face into his t-shirt, prepared to enjoy his endless bitching about how the Ewoks were ruining Star Wars.

“Quite right, too,” he murmured into her hair, before a tiny, furry teddy bear jumped out on screen and started squeaking and chirping at Han Solo. “But I still don’t understand what happened to the Wookiees!”

Rose giggled and poked him in the ribs, stopping his ridiculous flailing. “Just wait til we get to the Holiday Special.”


	15. Brave Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Bonnielass23  
> Prompt: "Enough by Lindsey Sitrling featuring Christina Perri, gave me Ten right after Doomsday vibes"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose... if you squint

The minute he drops Donna Noble off at her house, he goes back into the TARDIS, and he throws a tantrum. The snow in his hair hasn’t even melted before he begins breaking things.

He hasn’t done anything like this in a _long_ time. Several bodies. He can’t actually remember the last time. He just starts throwing things at the wall, and breaking whatever he can get his hands on, and it’s not good, it’s not _productive,_ it’s not _mature._ It’s not even him, really—not the him he wants to be. It’s just a miserable outpouring of an energy he’s been waiting to vent into the space around him, like a volcano finally, blessedly erupting. He is possessed by it—by the need to get it out.

The TARDIS seems determined to wait him out, keeping them carefully suspended in the vortex, all of the settings locked—child-proofed, he thinks bitterly—even while he whacks the console with that stupid mallet until the joints in his shoulders begin to rattle. He flings off his coat and he _works_ at the process of letting all his fury and fear and sadness out, trying to make enough of a mess that it feels satisfying rather than… empty.

He says some unspeakable things. Probably unforgivable, if anyone was around to hear him. But the TARDIS, his patient ship, will forgive him almost anything. She’s compassionate in that way—and cruel, too. He wishes something—someone—would just _punish him_ already.

Because he’s a coward, and isn’t that what happens to cowards? They get punished. They _lose._

They lose and they lose and they lose.

“She is not dead,” he’d said. “She is _so_ alive!” 

His real punishment comes in the form of having to say those words. He is pretty good with relative times—time sense will do that for you—and the speed of her universe—no, it’s _not_ her universe; and yet, it has to be—is faster than his, but she’s got time yet. _She is not dead_ , he reminds himself. _She is_ so _alive._ He will keep saying it. Various permutations on a theme. And he won’t be able to pinpoint exactly _when_ she dies, but it will happen, and he won’t be there to know, and so he will have to keep saying, “Rose Tyler is not dead. Rose Tyler is _alive_.” 

And he won’t know when it starts being a lie.

And she won’t know…

He’d said, “Oh, she knows,” and he’d said, “Quite right, too,” and none of that is worth anything. Because she won’t _know_.

That he loves her.

Because he wasn’t brave enough.

And so he tears his little world apart. Nothing is safe within his reach. Nothing— _except_ for the little bit of fabric that he has draped carelessly—or carefully, thoughtfully, almost obsessively—over a bit of railing. A thing left behind.

 _Now this is_ really _seeing the future. You just leave us behind. Is that what you're going to do to me?_

“No. Not to you,” he says to no one. “Oh, Rose. You’ll leave _me_.”

He takes a deep breath. The time rotor is steady. The TARDIS’s hum is soothing in the back of his mind. He doesn’t need all the surplus oxygen, but it doesn’t matter; there’s something stabilizing about the slow, intentional intake. 

He takes in the destruction: it’s impotent, as usual. Just a bit of a tantrum. Nothing he can’t fix. Nothing his TARDIS can’t put to rights. But he helps, and he mutters under his breath while he does it, just to have something—someone—to talk to. And then he sets his course for somewhere, somewhen else.

He has a bit more running to do.

It will take a while before he can come back to Earth. Before he is brave enough.


	16. A Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "tentoo publishing his experiences as the doctor in books. like the james bond books but better."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

Rose tends to stand in the back during these events. It isn’t because she dislikes the attention, or because the Doctor asks her to. It isn’t even because she particularly likes Clara, his sharp-tongued, sweet-cheeked agent. Though she does, very much.

No. She stands in the very back, looking out over the sea of heads, because she likes the view from here.

He’s saying, “ _The important thing to know about creatures made of plastic is that there exists—through a rather complicated scientific means that will not be discovered on Planet Earth until at least three centuries from now—an equal and opposite substance that can only be described as ‘anti-plastic.’ This substance, as it says on the tin, is… well, deadly to plastics._ ”

The Doctor sits up front on a stool, bathed in a halo of recessed lights. They make his hair gleam a shiny chestnut, with just a touch of bronze. She’ll never tell him—it’d go to his head—but under the golden lights, his sticky-uppy, perfectly messy hair is nearly auburn. One could almost say ginger. But she says nothing of the sort; she only smiles to herself, and wonders what Donna would think if she saw.

“ _Of course, telling a complete stranger from the twenty-first century that you’ve got a solution to her plastic problem and that solution is ‘anti-plastic’ is something only a mad person would do. Who would believe in such a substance? But the Doctor told her the truth anyway, because he liked the girl, and she seemed clever._ ”

Today, he’s wearing his blue suit: a particular favorite of hers. And he’s got his specs on, because that’s something that came over a bit odd during the whole metacrisis thing. When he hasn’t got them on, he squints. It’s endearing at home, but he doesn’t like to do it in front of crowds. Too proud. Ever the touchy Time Lord. Eternally vain.

“ _Naturally, Violet was a bit dubious about the mad alien’s claims. ‘Anti-plastic?’ she protested. ‘What a lot of sci-fi nonsense!’ She had watched an awful lot of Star Trek, you see, and she considered herself quite well-versed in the intricacies of what was feasible and what could live only in the hallowed halls of fiction. She also knew what was too ridiculous—even for fiction._ ”

When he does these book readings, he somehow always makes the little bookshops feel like theatres, with his charming grins and his explosive personality. He can turn any room into a stage. When he reads, the voice of the titular Doctor Strange—the name hadn’t been taken in this universe, to the Doctor’s endless amusement—is undeniably his own. The words he weaves, no matter how silly and nonsensical, are hypnotic. Intriguing. Just on this side of mad.

“ _But the Doctor followed no such rules. He knew that the universe was bigger, and madder, and unfortunately sillier than what even the most inventive science fiction writers could dream up. In fact, he’d met some of those science fiction writers. He often said that some of their very best ideas were stolen_ — _from him._ ”

She likes watching their heads bend toward the Doctor. The audience eats it up, what he writes, because the man in front of them _knows_ things. They can’t define what makes them feel it—nor can his publisher define what makes the Doctor’s novel a dark horse bestseller—but they do. They are entranced, entrenched in his unassailable sense of _experience_.

“ _Occasionally, he was telling the truth about that._ ”

She likes watching from the back, because the audience reminds her very much of herself.

Herself as she used to be, all those years ago. When she was more like _Violet_ and less like the Rose she is now _._ When they used to roam the stars together, and their world _was_ bigger, and madder, and sillier.

The Doctor looks up from his reading—just a momentary flash, his eyes meeting hers. He winks.

“Don’t tell him I said this,” Clara whispers, leaning close, “but he’s quite brilliant at these things. The audience _loves_ him.” She gestures vaguely around, to the eagerly straining shoulders and the hands clenched tightly in laps. Everyone is on the edge of their seat.

Rose grins. “Maybe he was an actor in a past life.”

She’ll have to ask him about it sometime.

He’s certainly melodramatic enough. Perhaps he’s met Shakespeare. She chews her lip to keep from laughing.

“Maybe,” Clara nods fondly. “Whatever he was then, he’s going to be a star now.”

Rose lets her grin grow at the edges. How funny. Her Doctor, a star.

Yes, she likes to stand in the back. 

All the better to see him shine.


	17. Another Pair of Shoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Alwaysdramatizing  
> Prompt: "For the prompt thing, I've always thought Ten/Rose wearing matching chucks would be the ultimate relationship goals"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

“Doctor!”

Rose came careening out of the wardrobe room and ran smack into the Time Lord himself, who was only just able to prevent the pair of them from falling over. “Whoa,” he cried out with a breathless laugh, “steady on! I’m here.”

But she was already stalking past him, fully dressed but for her bare feet. “We need to go to a shopping centre. Today.” The Doctor recognized a demand—rather than a request—when he saw one, but his brows still flew up in automatic confusion. “I need shoes,” she announced, answering his unspoken question without so much as a backward glance.

The Doctor blinked. “You’ve got shoes.” His eyes dropped to her bare feet and pink-painted toes—which were presently stomping away from him—and then he added, “Well, not _on your feet_ , but you’ve got them. I’ve seen you wear them before!”

But Rose turned and glowered at him, though her mouth seemed to twitch with the attempt not to smile. “ _Another_ pair of shoes.”

Once again, his eyebrows reacted before he could stop them. “All… right.”

“Good, then,” she said, nodding like something resembling a reasonable conversation had just passed between them. And then she spun on her heel and made for the console room, pausing momentarily to say, “Oh! I forgot my shoes. Forget my own head next,” before turning back and rummaging through the wardrobe room while the Doctor stood, glued to the floor in an expression of dismay.

When she emerged, she was wearing slippers. But the Doctor didn’t dare comment.

-

To air on the side of caution, he landed them in her time—or as near as he could get—and somewhere in the vicinity of London. She seemed like she was after something particular, and if she had something in mind, it wasn’t likely to be found on… say, Hyspero. So, he landed them near a block of department stores and followed her lead.

Rose chattered enthusiastically as they wandered through store after store, looking for what she described as “the right pair.” She didn’t even try any on; she just skimmed each aisle and kept walking, the pep in her footsteps never lessening. In fact, if the Doctor didn’t know better—if he didn’t know that she’d woken up a bit earlier than usual with a stomach ache, and then substituted several cups of tea for a proper breakfast, leaving her a jittering, overly-caffeinated wreck—he’d say she was nervous. Her energy never flagged, but her bright smile occasionally did.

Until she saw them.

 _Well,_ he saw them. He was one aisle over, staring blankly at the sea of ladies’ footwear, wondering how his life of adventure and exploration had come to _this_ and realizing that he wouldn’t actually have it any other way, when they caught his eye. Bubblegum pink and approximately Rose’s size. He held them up, grinning. 

“Rose!” he whisper-called over the shelving. And like a shot, her blonde head popped up, presumably because she was standing on her toes. When she saw the pink plimsolls, her whole face lit up in one of her sunny smiles, all traces of nerves fading away.

“Oh!” She gasped. “Those are perfect!” Her hand flung out over the top of the shelf, reaching excitedly for the pair of display shoes, which he handed over. “Just what I was looking for,” she chattered, her head once more dropping out of sight. “And they’re _pink_!” The sheer jubilation in her tone made the Doctor chuckle, and he waited for her head to pop up again. 

When it did, her look of pleasure did _not_ disappoint. “These shoes—they fit _perfectly_!” Her smile turned on him, an almost blinding light that made his chest ache with a pleasant sort of buzz. “Now we match,” she declared happily. And she gave a nod of satisfaction, a reward to a job well done.

For once, he was speechless. He just nodded, his own smile giddy and very likely stupid-looking. He shuffled his feet, his own shoes offering up an enthusiastic squeak.

She’d gone shopping for shoes… with the _express purpose_ of matching his? It sure _seemed_ like the case.

Even for a hale and healthy Time Lord, the knowledge was nearly enough to bring on a double cardiac event.

They’d been… whatever they were for months now, but each new, little act of intimacy made all the blood in his body start churning around like a sloshing bathtub in a hurricane. Beneath his ribs, his two hearts pumped out a rhythm that set him bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Wait right there,” he ordered through a silly smile. “Don’t move an inch.”

And then he hurried down the aisle, around the end, and toward Rose who was obediently stuck to the spot in her shiny, pink shoes and her shiny, pink smile. Her arms opened to him before he even arrived, and he careened toward her. They nearly toppled for the second time that day, but she was prepared. She braced herself and caught him.

Her muffled giggle blew warmly into his lapels.

“Rose Tyler,” he sighed, “you are just… perfect.”

His hand searched out her smooth jaw, tilting her chin up so he could look into her face. Her cheeks were softly blushing, whether from his warm embrace or embarrassment at the spectacle he was making. But he didn’t care. He slid his hands into her hair and lowered his lips to hers. She tasted like her morning tea, and like shiny pink lip gloss.

It was his favorite taste in the universe.

It didn’t come to his attention that he was snogging Rose in a shoe shop until he felt her start to giggle under his lips. Her shoulders shook with amusement, and he gave a soft tug on her hair, smiling against her. Slowly, he broke the kiss. “Think this is funny, do you?”

She shook her head. “Nope,” she pronounced, her smudgy lips popping around the “p.”

“I thought not.” With one final peck, he freed her from his arms. She seemed loath to move, but eventually, she did, bending over to untie the not-yet-purchased shoes.

As she slid her slippers back on, the Doctor said, “Ready to go?”

But Rose, still smiling sweetly, shook her head and set the shoes in his hands. “Nope. I need one more pair.”

The Doctor’s eyes darted to the pink shoes he held, and then back up to her kiss-warmed face.

“But… you said they were perfect.”

“They _are_ perfect. But things can always get _more_ perfect, don’t you think?”

He did _not_ think. In fact, he thought that was sort of the whole point of perfection, that it could not be improved upon. For example, he meant to say, he would not deign to “improve” a single hair on her ridiculous head. But Rose had already turned back down the aisle, bouncing brightly away from him, and _not_ toward the register. Once again at a loss, the Doctor let himself drift behind and around, taking in the rows and rows of repetitive footwear.

What an odd Saturday morning he was having, he thought pleasantly. Perhaps it didn’t rank in terms of supernatural sightings or galactic intrigue, but Rose’s irregular impulses and the strange, drifty feeling of being set loose in a footwear shop was definitely in the category of “Odd Saturday Mornings.”

His thoughts were bent on a race of sentient shoes that he’d heard of but never met when his name was called, from a few aisles away.

“Doctor!” Rose’s voice sounded faint. “I think I found the right pair!”

He made his way to her, rounding a corner just in time to see her whirling his direction, a tense smile on her lips.

It was the smile that caught his eye, and held it. Why did she look so… so _afraid?_

“Rose?”

Her smile wobbled. And she began chewing on her lip rather vigorously, obviously undaunted by the prospect of breaking skin. He stepped closer, his fingers stretched at his sides, stopping himself from reaching toward her and just tugging her into his arms. 

“Rose? Is everything… okay?”

At that, her eyes darted downward, dragging his gaze with her. 

To her hands, which were cupped—

Cradling a pair of shoes.

Shoes just like theirs.

Only… small. And bright yellow.

His brow furrowed as he looked back up at Rose. She was watching him carefully—waiting for his opinion, it seemed. “They’re a bit small for you, I think,” he said honestly. “I like the pink ones better.”

She laughed then, short and sudden and breathless.

“They’re not _for_ me,” she said. She spoke so slowly, like each word was being dragged up from the depths, kicking and screaming. “They’re for someone else. Someone we don’t know.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Yet.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Come on, Doctor,” she urged. “Use that big, brilliant brain.”

And he did. He thought very hard, rapid-firing everything he knew and trying to make sense of it all.

And then he realized. “Idiot,” he choked out, stumbling towards her. “I’m an idiot. _Rose._ ”

Her smile lit up the whole shop. “You’re happy?”

“I’m—Rose, I’m—” He couldn’t manage a string of coherent words, let alone anything resembling the eloquence the situation warranted. “You’re sure? But you haven’t eaten _anything_ today! You’ve only had tea, and that’s not—that’s not _nearly_ enough for someone growing a baby. A half-Time Lord baby. Oh!” He smacked his forehead. “We have to go. We have to go back to the TARDIS _right now_ and I’m taking you to medical. You… There are tests…”

Rose laughed, and the sound raced through him like adrenaline. It almost burned. “Can we buy the shoes first?” She was just… she was _everything._ She blotted out his vision until all he could see was sunlight. The Doctor blinked rapidly, not realizing that it wasn’t Rose so much as the wet sheen of tears that made everything blurry and bright.

He nodded, swallowing convulsively. “Yes. Yeah. Def—uh, definitely.” His arms were aching with the need to hold her, though, and he couldn’t wait until they got out of the checkout line and out of the store and off of the street and into the TARDIS, so he just did it then. He just pulled her into his arms and wrapped himself around her, and he kissed the top of her head, letting the blurry fog of his thoughts fade and re-crystallize in time with the rapid pulse of his hearts. 

The pulse that said, _Rose, Rose, Rose._

And pressed between their bodies, yellow shoes. Little yellow shoes and the whole universe.


	18. And we kissed, as though nothing could fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Just for the sake of fluff, Rose dancing on Ten's feet? To some David Bowie song, perhaps?"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

She felt high as she ran into the Doctor's arms, almost _soaring_ when he hugged her so tight and lifted her up so that her feet swayed and kicked off the ground like a kid on a swing. For a moment, while she was suspended in his arms, it was like nothing—nothing else, nothing but him—could touch her. Not even death. 

Even through the clunky spacesuit, his body felt familiar to her—long and firm and mobile, swinging with her to an unheard rhythm that always seemed to play between them. He bounced on the soles of his feet, and she relished the feeling of his smile pressed into her neck. And all was right with the world.

For a moment, at least. 

He set her down and stripped out of his orange spacesuit and returned to the console, and she felt herself sagging beside him. The adrenaline was already fading, leaving her voice low and plaintive.

"What do you think it was, really?"

"I think," he hesitated, avoiding her eyes in favor of what she knew to be pointless fiddling, "we beat it. That's good enough for me."

Her stomach settled like lead. The Doctor was _afraid_. Of what?

"It said I was gonna die in battle," she pushed. 

But the Doctor looked at her, then—brown eyes wide and earnest. "Then it lied."

She wanted to believe him. She _wanted_ that lightness back, that feeling of pure joy that could exist unimpeded by predictions and danger and even gravity itself. So she put on her best smile as they wished the Sanctuary Base crew goodbye, and it held as the Doctor looked down at her, called her "The Stuff of Legend." She felt her jaw clench and wobble, and she kept smiling anyway.

When it was all over, she might have deflated like a week-old party balloon were it not for that smile and the way the Doctor caught it and—in a flash—returned it, times a thousand. One of those manic, megawatt smiles. It leapt through her system like lightning, and she felt the corners of her own mouth lifting higher. "What next?" she asked. 

Suddenly, she was awake. Alert. Up for anything. Again. It was a talent he had, making her feel that way, no matter how many hours they'd spent awake. 

But the Doctor laughed and fiddled with a few different knobs. She caught the sound of crackling static—the familiar racket of the TARDIS radio, searching for a fresh signal. Rose had no idea how it worked, but she also didn't particularly care; like the rest of the timeship she'd made a home in, it was a magnificent mystery to her. 

After a few moments of fiddling, she caught a faint snatch of singing, and she squealed on impulse. "Yes!" she cried, grabbing the Doctor's hand, tugging him away from where he stood, rotating another knob to clear up the static. "Come on, come on," she urged, almost stumbling over her feet in the eagerness to dance.

" _We can beat them_ ," she sang enthusiastically. " _Just for one day! We can be heroes, just for one day!_ " As David Bowie wailed away in partial static, her whole body swayed and twisted, and her voice echoed throughout the console room. And she _lived_ for the curve of the Doctor's lips, the way he seemed content to be dragged around. He followed her rhythm, hands resting loosely on her hips. " _I, I will be king… and you,_ " she sang, pointing at him, " _you will be queen. Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes! Just for one day!_ "

When the static started to clear—no doubt the TARDIS's doing—the Doctor joined in, and her sing-shouting turned to laughter.

And so they danced, a dervish in two separate but synced bodies. It reminded her, actually, of when they'd first danced together. Their bodies had been in tune, even when it felt like nothing else was. They only had a shared sense of rhythm, and an idea of the steps.

But now… things were so much _more._ Less tacit. More real, infused into every rocking motion that showed they'd done this a hundred times. Every day they'd spent together had fused them into this—this joyful, raucous entity that faced down gods and demons and _laughed._ Their audacity, their boldness, had only grown. Even with each other.

Together, they screamed, " _And the guns… shot above our heads… (Over our heads!) And we kissed, as though nothing could fall!_ " As she sang those words, Rose let herself tilt in his arms, knowing he would catch her. 

He did. The Doctor righted her in one swift arc, her hair whipping behind them, and set her solidly back on her feet. On his feet. The action brought her closer to his body, turned him into her center of gravity. She reached her arms around his neck, and let him move her. Pressed against his chest, she could feel him humming. _Oh, we can beat them… forever and ever._

_Then we could be heroes, just for one day._

And she just… let herself sway. 

"Rose," the Doctor said, his voice barely audible over the thrumming guitar. Her eyes caught his; they were dark and open, almost black. "Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise."

She nodded. "I know," she answered. She believed him. She _did._

And she kissed him. As though nothing could fall.


	19. The One Where Hardy Gets Snogged By A Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "If you're still taking prompts: rose meeting alec hardy while dimension hopping"  
> Pairing: Rose Tyler x Alec Hardy...ish? Ten x Rose mentioned. You know what? It's complicated.

Rose lands in the middle of an active crime scene. 

She can tell it's active because of all the blue-and-white tape and the tarp blowing in the wind. And while she has certainly landed some rather inconvenient places before—one foot in the skip, a random back garden full of yappy dogs, a delivery room (on the _other_ side of the curtain, fortunately)—this one…

This has to be the worst.

There is a body bag.

At least it's dark out, and no one seems to be paying close attention to this empty stretch of beach—that is, no one in uniform. There is a man, though he's a little way down the shoreline. His back is to her. At a distance, he merely looks tall and rail-thin, and his back is slightly bowed like he's bearing a heavy weight that the world can't see. She knows the feeling.

She kicks up sand, attempting to cover up her tracks, but she's only leaving more behind, and there's no time for her to stop and take her shoes off. So, she tries not to look at the too-small body bag and ducks under the tape and runs off in search of… _something._ Anything, really. But there's nothing anywhere, no clue as to what might have brought her to this place.

By the time she returns to the beach, even the lone man is gone. There's no one else to ask. _Why am I here?_ So, after only ten minutes of searching—for the TARDIS, for time traces, for anything or anyone at all—she comms Torchwood.

“Get me out of here,” she mutters desperately, glad to leave this horrible place and it’s dreadful mysteries behind.

-

The next jump, she isn’t so lucky.

"Shit, sorry," she cries, automatically bracing herself against the body she's bumped into. The reaction is automatic—as is the quick visual sweep of the person she’s bumped. She’s started to look for certain things: uniformed police officers, military fatigues, anything that might cause a problem. Torchwood had developed a sort of hack-job perception filter to accompany her hopper, but that doesn’t always prevent difficult run-ins with the truly observant.

Rose’s glance reveals nothing important, though—only a long-limbed body in a cheap suit, slightly wrinkled. “I’m _so_ sorry,” she repeats emphatically, preparing her best smile to unleash on this unfortunate stranger. “I’m such a—”

Her smile freezes on her face, and her hands clench spasmodically against the lapels of the suit. Brown is what she sees. All she sees. Brown eyes, miles deep. Red-rimmed with exhaustion, and bags underneath, but she barely registers any of that—it’s all subliminal processing, certainly—because she is immediately, irrevocably sucked into the Doctor’s eyes.

The Doctor’s oh-so-sad eyes.

“I found you,” she breathes, unaware of herself as she tilts forward. He steadies her, his hands flying out on reflex, just as hers had. And for a moment, they are unbalanced together, leaning on one another for a stability that they do not possess alone. Rose feels the long seconds hang and suspend while relief coils through her body like lightning. It is only then that she catches up with the rest of his face—the freckles, sharper from sun exposure, the tired lines around his eyes, the terse set of his mouth… 

“Oh my God,” she says with a gasping laugh. “You’ve got a beard!”

It is the last coherent thought she has before she launches herself up, her arms grasping vines around his neck, her cheek rubbing against the stubbly chin. She only stops long enough to do what she’d decided—what she’d _promised_ she would do—when she finally found him.

Rose pulls her head back just enough to catch the flicker of surprise, shining gold in those brown depths, and then seals her lips to his. All around her mouth is the prickling of his scruffy beard, and he tastes like tea, and a bit like jam on toast, and she smiles before she can stop herself, her tongue sneaking out to run across the seam of his lips.

He seems frozen where he stands, his hands gripping her ribcage. His mouth softens against hers, though—whether out of surprise or pleasure, she can’t rightly say. But it is with a small sense of relief that she feels him give in. The thought strikes her—

“I like it.” She pulls away, abandoning his shiny lips for only a second. “The beard, I mean. Suits your face.” She hopes she sounds reassuring enough. And then she promptly returns to kissing him, if only because she can. He’s letting her, even. In fact, the Doctor is ready for her this time, his lips moulding with hers immediately, creating a space which they can both inhabit. She kisses him and kisses him, sucking on that pouty bottom lip that tastes like tea and tart cherries until she has to stop for air.

When her eyelids at last flutter open, she realizes that his never closed. Those weary brown eyes are curiously examining her, as if trying to make sense of and memorize her features. She pulls away slowly, reluctant to stop sharing his airspace, for him to release her body from his hands.

“Doctor,” she pleads softly, “say something. I came back.”

But he just blinks. And then opens his mouth, snaps it shut again. Finally, he settles on a phrase that guts her where she stands. 

“I’ve no idea who you are.”

She doesn’t pull away immediately; she’s too stunned for that, a startled animal who has chosen to freeze in favor of any other escape strategies. His voice is—well, his voice is like the Doctor’s and not like the Doctor’s. She frowns. “You’re Scottish.”

The man— _not the Doctor?_ —gives one short dip of the chin, not even a nod. “Well spotted.”

“You’re not the Doctor.” The words stutter out numbly, before she can absorb their consequence. Before she can prepare for more of what’s hurt her.

Again, a slight movement: something that barely could be called a shake of the head. “I’m Detective Inspector Alec Hardy,” he says, as if by rote. “And you are?”

But Rose is too busy blinking dully to answer. Her mind is all muddy confusion. And despite her impulse not to, she begins to release him from what had been an eager—and then desperate—grasp. She drops from the tips of her toes, heels digging into the sand. It feels as if she’s being swallowed by some great, gaping horror. Her vision is blurred at the edges.

“But your eyes,” she says brokenly. “You have his eyes. You have his _face_! His whole… his whole body. You’re exactly like—” And she watches the way his eyes narrow. The way his brow furrows and his lips form a tight, flat line. And she realizes that this is not one of the Doctor’s expressions; this is not the way he looks at her. Her vision is blurring more now, from the tears. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats helplessly. “I made a mistake.”

“You _materialized_ out of thin air, actually,” the man—DI Hardy—clips out, his rolling brogue unable to compensate for what is obviously a taciturn, brusque manner. His searching gaze never leaves her. “That’s not a mistake. That’s an impossibility.”

At that, she lifts up a small, watery smile. “You’d be surprised what’s possible, Detective Inspector.” She looks around her, then—notices her surroundings for the first time. She’s back on the beach, same as before. But there is no body. There are no tarps or tape barriers; it’s only a blank, chilly span of beach under claustrophobic cloud cover. There will be a storm soon. She shakes the feeling off, and looks back up at the detective.

Though it pains her.

His expression is unreadable. Or, she can only find one major feeling, and it is etched into the lines of his face: sadness. Whoever this man may be, he wears the Doctor’s face and he is in unspeakable pain. He carries it on hunched shoulders, in clenched hands. She had only felt it fade for one brief moment, when she’d shocked him with her kiss.

 _Surely,_ she thinks desperately, _that means something._

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She shifts on her feet, ready to run if need be. “Did you solve it?” When the man doesn’t answer, she adds, “The body on the beach?”

Slowly, he ducks his head again in something like an affirmative.

“Good.” She mimics him, nodding more emphatically. “I’m glad. You seem very good at your job.”

At that, his face breaks for the first time. Almost a smile, only it’s derisive, and accompanied by a huffed laugh. “You’d be the first to think so. And you’re a mad woman who just appeared from nowhere and kissed me.” His expression softens, just slightly. “Not exactly trustworthy.”

She feels her lips twitching. “Maybe not. But even if I’m the first, I’m sure I won’t be the last.”

“You’re very good at avoiding questions,” the detective notes, rolling his shoulders.

“Or maybe I’m wrong and you’re just a rubbish cop after all.” And despite herself—maybe because it’s _his_ face and she can see, somewhere in this man, a smile trying to break through—she grins. His smile—smirk, really—is a mere echo of hers. But it’s something.

She debates briefly whether or not to tell him anything; she tries to weigh the dangers, but has to admit that she doesn’t see any. And it’s been a while.

Since she had hope.

“My name’s Rose. And yes, you _did_ see me materialize out of nothing. It’s a handy trick.”

“And you’re looking for someone,” he presses. It’s not exactly a question. In fact, he hasn’t really _asked_ her anything since that first initial question: _And you are?_

But she nods, trying not to show how it pains her. Her smile is practiced, unflagging. “He’s called the Doctor. He and I are…” She has no satisfying conclusion to that sentence. Only a pain beneath her ribs, where her heart beats steadily away. An ache she carries everywhere, much like this detective carries his. “Well, he’s lost me. So, I’m finding him.”

“And he looks like me?”

“You could be twins,” she says softly. “I guess you could be a bit older. And… there’s the beard.” She watches two spots of color build on his cheekbones as they both remember. _I like it,_ she’d told him. _Suits your face._

Well, it did. She hadn’t been lying. 

“Right,” DI Hardy mumbles, eyes dropping from hers for a brief moment. Long enough for her to look down at her own arm and see the flickering yellow light on her wrist—the ninety second warning. She must have missed the five minute one, what with the snogging. And the heartbreak.

She sucks in a breath. “Shit. I’ll be pulled back soon.” When she looks back up, he is staring at her again. There is such a confusing blend of feelings to be found in those brown eyes. She wishes she had the time to parse it all out, make sense of who this man _is._ But instead, she braces herself for the tug, stance widening on the sand. “I’m not sure what brought me here, you know,” she hurries out. “I don’t choose. I’m being pulled across time and space, over and over. And I might never be dropped back here, so in case this is all I ever see of you, Detective— _Alec_ …” 

She watches his eyes widen slightly at her sudden, reckless intimacy. But what else could he expect from a girl who randomly fell through space and snogged him? Her smile opens, real and warm. “I hope you have a… a fantastic life. Very long and very happy, where you get snogged often and vigorously by someone who _didn’t_ just appear from nowhere.” She watches the edges of his lips for a flicker, which comes in a strangely sweet flash. “I hope you’re… happy.” A touch selfishly, she adds, “I hope we both are.”

“Rose,” he begins, eyeing the way her body tenses. But he doesn’t get to say anything else.

She disappears. Into the nothing from which she came.

-

It is many jumps later, when it happens. She can hardly keep count anymore. It feels like years have passed, and maybe they have, in the space between these hops. 

It all gets sort of… timeless, out there among the fading stars.

But when she lands on the beach, she immediately recognizes the salt smell and the way the wind whips against the cliffs. She smiles at the ground beneath her feet. And she basks in the rightness of her home universe. Each time she lands here, no matter the specific place, it is like taking a deep breath after being underwater. But this… she remembers this beach. 

She exhales, and comes out as a bit of a laugh, carried on the wind.

“Rose?”

She looks up.

And she smiles. “Hello, again.”


	20. This Imperfect Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Twelve being soft only for Rose, please."  
> Pairing: Twelve x Rose

The classroom was full, as usual.

Of dunderheads.

Though that, too, was a given.

That was a problem with living among humans—you had to deal with the other seven billion sometimes.

Not just the special ones.

The Doctor turned his back on the class with a dramatic sweep of his arm, the little stub of chalk in his hand flying to the blackboard and landing with a smack. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that he’d captured his students’ attention.

Which was good. They could do with a bit of focus. 

After the pitiful excuses he’d received in place of proper academic papers, he figured they were due for a shakeup. Maybe a bit of bollocking from one Scary Handsome Genius From Space.

“Since none of you seem particularly adept at writing,” the Doctor announced, beginning to write briskly on the blackboard, “that will be our topic for today. I think you lot, with your general inadequacy, could stand to go back as far as cuneiform tablets, but—let’s face it—I haven’t got that kind of time.” He chuckled amusedly to himself at the slight untruth. “So, let’s start with something a little more modern, shall we?”

The Doctor spun to face the class again, pleased to see captivated expressions all across the sea of faces; they ranged from curiosity to confusion, displeasure to downright panic—but none of them looked bored. He tried his best to look stern and academic, but as his gaze swept the classroom, he caught sight of a familiar face. 

Rose, standing in the doorway.

She drew one’s gaze like the sun did; even when you knew it was a bad idea to stare directly, she captured the eye, pulled you in.

And she leaned against the door frame, indecipherable from the other students with her sweatshirt and her smile. Despite himself, the edges of his lips lifted in silent greeting. She waved back, her tongue slipping slightly between her teeth as she silently laughed at him.

Because he was staring.

Suddenly, all his irritation was sucked away. He didn’t so much mind the pile of puerile papers he’d have to grade—or make Nardole grade, more like. He hardly felt tethered to this classroom at all. He knew where his real home was: with Rose Tyler, on the TARDIS. And he _loved_ their life—even the ridiculous, oh-so-human bits. Even when it wasn’t perfect.

 _Especially_ when it wasn’t.

Letting his grin broaden, he lifted his arm and turned his attention on the students. “Who here—by show of hands—has read… _Harry Potter_?”

He was pleased to see the answer was nearly unanimous. Almost every hand was high in the air.

“Great stuff, isn’t it?” he enthused. “Love all that silly wand-waving.”

He watched incredulity creep over many of the students’ faces, as if they weren’t quite sure if he was joking or not. Or maybe they weren’t sure why he was smiling.

The latter seemed more likely. He knew how people got, with the smiling.

“And the bit with the shifty staircases—brilliant! Some places are really like that, you know.” He was thinking of the TARDIS, of course, but they didn’t need to know that. “Seems like every time you visit, _something’s_ changed. And that’s the beauty, isn’t it, of those books? The world of wizards is changeable, imprecise, _imperfect_ —which means you can turn it into… well, practically anything you want! You can read it over and over and find new things to think about, new characters to focus on.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly, conspiratorially. “You can even, if you squint… turn it into a series with a decent ending!”

The class tittered in unexpected amusement.

When he glanced up at Rose again, her head was shaking back and forth fondly. A parody of dismay. She seemed just as surprised by his spur-of-the-moment decision to lecture on the evils and excellences of J.K. Rowling’s writing, though he wasn’t sure why she would be. 

They were _her_ favorite books, after all.

“So, class, tonight’s assignment is: Go home.” He felt his gaze being drawn again, to Rose—the impulse to go to her increasing with every second. “Get your hands on a Harry Potter book. And try to feel the magic, yeah? Try to absorb even a wee bit of creativity… so your next papers aren’t so _bloody dull_!”


	21. To thee I'll return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "12/Rose. Rose coming back from Pete's Worod after journeys end(tentoo died of old age) and reunited with 12 at st Luke's"  
> Pairing: Twelve x Rose (with past Tentoo x Rose)

She steps outside, the smell of heat and cut grass immediate and thick in the evening air. It cocoons her like a soft blanket, or a womb.

It feels like starting over again. 

And in a way, it is.

-

Torchwood is mostly a memory at this point. Once their TARDIS coral had grown up, she and John had taken the lead on interplanetary relations—unofficially, of course. Or technically, they’d retired with the full support of their superiors. They both knew how dangerous it would be to give Torchwood—even a _reformed_ Torchwood—access to a timeship. So, they’d gone freelance.

Without Rose and John’s expertise and Pete Tyler’s funding, Torchwood devolved into a sort of security agency, which was then absorbed into official government channels. Purchased for a hefty sum, their technological advancements turned inward, focused on the protection of their earth and her people. Rose couldn’t help but approve; the human race wasn’t ready, yet, for a presence among the stars.

But she was.

Without Torchwood tethering them to earth, she and John had set out to explore their universe.

And they certainly made the most of it. For nearly twenty years, they’d flown through time and space with the same freewheeling joyousness they’d shared for their first two years together, in their home universe. They had adventures, and scrapes, and too many near-escapes to keep count of.

And then John got hurt.

It had been a relatively small thing, but it brought them back into what was left of Torchwood. Familiar faces gathered around a hospital bed. And someone commented on how _good_ Rose looked.

“Like you haven’t aged a day,” they said. And John had looked at her, with those ancient eyes and heavy bags like bruises underneath, as if noticing for the first time that maybe—just maybe—Rose’s healthy, vibrant, pink-cheeked beauty was _too_ enduring.

And that was the day it really began.

Her return journey home.

-

The campus around her is empty, and she attributes the absence of students and the sweltering heat to the height of an English summer. She can hear the faint chirps of crickets and somewhere a bit of street noise, but the immediate space around her is stifled and quiet and still, crowded on all sides of the green by towering buildings. They look old and academic, with darkened windows.

The TARDIS had brought her here, though, after that dangerous tumble through the void.

So, he has to be nearby.

And if he isn’t…

Well, she has this whole universe to explore all over again.

Rose feels a deep peace settle in her bones. She takes a long, slow breath, letting her chest expand, as she takes in the air of her home universe—home planet—home _country_. It feels intoxicatingly right; even the humidity is distantly familiar, like a song not heard in years suddenly playing on the radio. For a moment, she wishes—

Well.

But it doesn’t last.

This is what he’d always intended. From that day in the hospital, he’d always planned for her to go back. He’d worked for it, bending his not-inconsiderable will toward finding a crack for the TARDIS to slip through, a safe passage so Rose could return to their home universe. 

He’d never meant to make the trip himself.

In the end, she’d waited as long as she could. She’d lived out their life, burying her father and then her mother and then John. All too fast, like she’d blinked and woken up without them. And then she’d done her best to be there for Tony. For a while, it was possible. But she wasn’t ageing _._ And she couldn’t pretend otherwise—not even to be with the people she loved.

Rose blinks away the haze of tears and memory, and when her vision clears—

He’s there.

She doesn’t know how she knows, only that she does. “Doctor,” she says softly, but it pierces through the quiet. Her smile is stretching before she can stop it, blooming from a joy so deeply embedded—so _buried_ —that she’d never expected to feel it again.

“I heard the TARDIS,” he says, almost to himself. He’s Scottish. She wonders if lots of planets have a Scotland, too, as well as a north.

She wants to laugh out loud from the surprise, but she thinks he might take offense. He looks so _very_ serious.

“Thought I was going mad for a moment there.”

“Who says you aren’t?” Her tone is teasing, but the Doctor doesn’t laugh—doesn’t smile. Instead, that thundercloud brow contracts and darkens over familiar blue eyes. 

So much changes, and so much never changes. In the last seventy or so years, she’s come to understand that.

Still, she feels terribly young when she tells him. “Doctor, I… I came back.” The phrase is like slow-budding hope, tender and tentative.

“Yes,” he says. Her uncertainty is obviously shared, and the Doctor shifts his weight like a teenager. Actually, he’s _dressed_ like a teenager—wearing loud plaid pants and too many layers under his blazer and thick-soled boots that look more appropriate for a rock concert than a campus.

And yet, it makes so much sense, seeing him this way. On a university green. Dressed like one of the students, almost. It feels… right, in some indefinable way.

“Did something… happen?”

Rose blinks. It’s an impossible question. Everything had happened. _Life_ happened. “Nothing extraordinary, I suppose. We lived. John—the Doctor, that is—he died.” When his eyes widen, she rushes to add, “Old age. At home, in our bed. He was ninety-one.” His heavy brow furrows in confusion. They are quite spectacularly expressive, betraying him even when his eyes and lips remain unmoved.

She waits for him to ask.

“But you…?”

He is creeping closer now, curiosity outweighing restraint. And she steps toward him, too—determined to bridge the gap of years and universes. “It was the vortex,” she says carefully. She doesn’t want to place blame. There is none to be had. But if she knows the Doctor, he will spin it from thin air, from the faintest hint of regret. “Bad Wolf. It was subtle, at first—I didn’t get sick, and I never got hurt, even when I landed…” But she doesn’t complete that thought.

She’d never had time to tell him about the war zones and the fields of death and the danger, the first time she came back. She doesn’t want to now—possibly ever.

“I’m sure I aged a little at first, and then it slowed, and once John and I started traveling again…”

The Doctor’s face is unreadable. “You stopped ageing altogether.”

“Yes,” she answers, barely a whisper. “When he worked it out, John… well, he got to work.” She shoots him a smile, slight and quavering. “He wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be alone, after. That I could find my way back.”

She is close enough to see the stars reflected in his eyes—pinpricks of brightness against the deepening, darkening blue. They’re fathomless in the dark, as infinite and ancient as she remembers. And even though the lines on his face are new to her, unfamiliar in their fierceness, the essence of him is unchanged. The light in his eyes is the same.

He blinks, and she doesn’t even realize she’s been leaning toward him until she stops, off-balance and in his breathing space.

“It’s too perfect,” he announces, stepping back. “This is _exactly_ the sort of thing I would wish for, even dream about, and therefore, it cannot be reality.”

 _That’s_ unexpected.

Rose frowns. “That makes no sense.”

“And your accent is wrong.”

That _really_ makes her laugh, a sharp exhale that is nearly a sigh. _Of course_ he would fight this every step of the way. Her self-sabotaging alien idiot. “You’re one to talk! Doctor, I’ve lived almost eighty years in a different _universe_ , my pronunciation of some things was bound to change a bit.” But his comment still shakes her; she hadn’t noticed the changes. What else had altered?

Surely nothing foundational. Surely nothing that was quintessentially _her._

“That sounds like a justification,” the Doctor shoots back, his arms fluttering at his sides, “not an explanation.”

This time, she does sigh. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Well, you’re being _perfect_. And that’s—that’s just not something I can accept. Rose Tyler wasn’t perfect. She was messy and impulsive and she burnt everything in the kitchen.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement—”

“And she… she dressed like a department store Valentine’s Day display threw up on her!”

“Yes, and _you_ used to wear cheap suits,” she says through gritted teeth. Her heart is pumping wildly in her chest, like some force is possessing her, inching her forward until she’s all but shouting in his face. “Times _change._ Fashions _change_! God, but _you_ never change, do you? You will always and forever be the biggest _git_ in the universe!” And then, almost against her own will, she angrily closes the distance, her lips connecting with his like a blow, her fingers sliding through his hair and grasping.

And just like that, she is kissing the Doctor.

Again. After so long.

She can feel her pulse in her lips, in the tips of her fingers as they rake through his hair, in the blood that’s boiling and rushing to her cheeks. Ridiculous man. He’s _infuriating._ And he is frozen, his hands on either side of her but not touching—just hovering and pinwheeling like she’s throwing him entirely off balance.

With a quick swipe of her tongue, she pulls away, leaving behind lips that are pursed and shining. “Well?”

“I’m obviously dreaming,” he rasps.

“No, you’re not,” she replies, “and I’ve been waiting to do this for twenty years, so _kiss me_ before I get back in my TARDIS and go find a version of you who isn’t so damned _difficult._ ”

At that, his mouth snaps shut and his eyes—hazy and hooded—drop to her lips again. He looks so much like that time, when Cassandra had taken her body over and kissed him so hard that it nearly sent Rose soaring to the surface—he looks just the same. So startled and rumpled and _lovely._

Some things never change.

This time, when she kisses him, his hands settle on her hips; it’s a light touch, and terribly uncertain. It’s possible he’s not even aware of it. But this body does seem a bit skittish, as if this version of him is unused to being touched. Still, she’s certain some muscle memory is hidden down deep, because his mouth against hers moves in a familiar, push-pull rhythm that drags her under, breathless and dazed. For once, his mouth curves: a crescent moon against her lips.

She has to stop for air before he does, and when she draws back, he follows. The gravitational pull she seems to exert is delicious and unexpected, given his tentative touches and prior disbelief. She lingers, barely a breath away from the man she’d crossed time and space and nothingness to find.

“I came back,” she repeats, trying to catch her breath. “I wasn’t even sure I’d find you, or if you’d know me when I did. But John, he was sure.” Her hand untangles from his hair, sliding down to touch his cheek, dragging her thumbs along the frown lines. “I don’t want to pretend nothing’s changed. But… I…”

She chews her lip. Terrible habit, but she feels a little thrill at the way it draws his eye.

“I want to stay. With you. If that’s alright.” Rose’s eyes slide up to his, searching for something. “If there’s… no reason why I shouldn’t.”

“There isn’t,” he replies, almost too quickly. And then, his mouth softens. His whole face smooths and gentles until it hardly feels like any time has passed between them. “Rose. _Stay_.”

“How long?” she asks. A smile strains her cheeks. 

It’s shorthand. It’s almost too easy to say, words too painfully sweet on her tongue.

_How long are you going to stay with me?_

And the Doctor says, “Forever.”


	22. Mirrored Image, Or: The Rubbish One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Guardianbelle  
> Prompt: "12 meeting cardinal richelieu"  
> Pairing: Twelve x Rose (because like I said on Tumblr, I'm physically incapable of writing a story that doesn't feature Rose)

When Rose emerged from the wardrobe room, she had undergone yet another transformation.

After several years of traveling with his pink and yellow girl, the Doctor had come to realize that Rose loved to play dress-up. If he weren't completely certain of her abiding love for him and his ship, he'd almost be tempted to think it her _favorite_ part. She always flounced into the console room with such satisfaction, decked out in whatever era-appropriate (or nearly appropriate) gear the TARDIS had guided her to. 

Today was no different, and she looked radiant, dressed in sunny yellow for seventeenth century France. Her cheeks were flushed from the hot layers of fabric, and her hair was pinned up in elaborate curls.

"You look beautiful."

But Rose arched a brow in that way she had—as if to say, _For a human, you mean?_ She looked as imperious as a queen, right up until she burst into giggles.

-

"So, what are we here for?" she asked, smoothing down the heavy brocade as they stepped out of the TARDIS and into the muddy street. Her nose wrinkled at the overwhelming smells; she'd tucked a sprig of lavender into her chemise, but nothing could overpower the odours of Paris after a hard rain.

"For the fun of it!" The Doctor waved his arm at the clamor of the crowd. People were pressed together in the narrow streets, all talking over one another. "We’ve been jumping forward over and over again; I thought it might be nice for you to go back to your roots.”

Rose eyed him, lips curved in a slight smile. “...and?”

“And… well, how do you fancy meeting the Three Musketeers?”

At that, her eyes flashed excitedly. “You mean they’re actually _real_?”

“In a sense,” he shrugged casually, though he was actually quite pleased to have surprised her. And she looked at their surroundings with a new enthusiasm. “Everything is based on something. You humans aren’t that creative, really.” And he huffed a laugh as her elbow dug teasingly into his ribcage, though her voluminous sleeves dulled the effect. “But yes, some of the historical figures that our favorite literary legends faced off with _did_ exist. And there is even a basis for the Musketeers themselves to be found… in real men.”

“Brilliant,” Rose whispered, eyes scanning the crowd. “How do we find them?”

“ _Move aside! Make way!_ ” 

The sound of a carriage rolling hastily over cobblestone broke up their conversation, and the Doctor was forced to shift Rose bodily to the side, weighed down as she was by a sea of fabric, in order to avoid the speeding contraption. He had barely pulled her to him—most indecently, all things considered—when the imposing black carriage flew by, kicking up a shower of muddy water that splattered the both of them.

_And these were his favorite trousers._

Rose sputtered, wiping at her mud-speckled face. “That’s Paris for you,” she laughed darkly. “No manners.” Brownish-grey streaks of muddy water marred her pink cheeks, and the whole bodice of her gown had been spattered, like rubbish, wearable modern art.

“These were my favorite trousers!” the Doctor protested. “And that carriage almost killed you!”

But Rose just laughed—whether at his priorities or at his vanity, he couldn’t say.

“I’m serious! That driver is a hazard!” And then he was on the move, almost before he was quite aware of himself. He splashed thoughtlessly through a puddle— _and there went his shoes!_ —dragging Rose behind him in pursuit of the homicidal carriage. It wasn’t difficult to follow; the damn thing left behind a trail of tittering people pushed to the sides of the street, churned up mud and puddles, and the distant, echoing sound of, “ _Make way! Make way!_ ”

“Ridiculous,” he muttered. “It’s the seventeenth sodding century! Manners have been around for at _least_ a hundred years.” And he continued in that way, seething with irritation over the dangerous driver and the trashing of his trousers. But they made good time, despite Rose’s slower pace, and caught up with the carriage right as it stopped before a very large house.

“Come on, we’ll catch him before he goes inside.”

“I’m _trying_! This dress weighs a ton!”

“You there!” the Doctor shouted, his brogue carrying and catching the attention of whoever was disembarking from the carriage. “You ought to dismiss your driver! He nearly killed my wife just now, and he’s ruined my trousers!” Perhaps an overstatement—on all counts—but it did capture the sentiment. As they got closer, he was able to make out a pale face and grey hair and what was clearly clerical dress, albeit a bit darker than usual.

“I beg your pardon?” the man called back, his voice… familiar, somehow. The Doctor frowned.

And his frown turned into a gape of confusion as he realized. 

Beneath the black skullcap, under the pointed little beard and the merciless frown, was… himself. It was like looking into a mirror, so strong was the resemblance. In fact, he couldn’t imagine how he’d first missed it. The Doctor’s jaw dropped.

“ _What_?”

The scowl on his mirrored face deepened. “Who are you and why have you elected to follow my carriage and shout at me?” 

There was something else familiar about the man—beyond the identical face and the shared intonation. Beyond the eeriness of seeing his own face reflected back. The facial hair… the _zucchetto_ … the ostentatious robes… Everything came together to form a picture, but the Doctor felt like he was looking at it through a funhouse mirror: the result was distorted.

Rose—who was still gasping from their unexpected run—stepped forward, her bare shoulders heaving. She shot the Doctor one look over her shoulder and when he remained open-mouthed and silent, she sighed. “We followed your carriage,” she began breathlessly, “because you practically ran us over! And since you don’t seem to be in any hurry just now, I can only assume that either yourself or your driver are rude, inconsiderate—”

Who _was_ this man? Clearly part of the Catholic Church. But his bearing was too haughty, too self-important to be only a simple priest. And he was so _familiar..._

“Keep hold of your woman,” the foul man said, looking Rose up and down. “Or I’ll be forced to do it for you.” His eyes lingered in places that the Doctor _firmly_ believed they should not. _The lecher._ But Rose could handle herself, as evidenced by her rapidly tightening fists.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Rose burst out, and she took a step closer to the man, though her way was abruptly barred by guards. Her face had gone red from indignation, and smeared as it was with muck, she was rather a feral sight to behold. The Doctor almost smiled. “I’ll get hold of _something,_ you bloody menace—”

“How dare you!”

“I don’t care _who_ you are, you’ve got no right to go running people off roads with your _ridiculous_ carriage!”

“Shall we arrest them, Cardinal?”

 _Cardinal?_ The Doctor’s mind worked rapidly to piece together who exactly they were dealing with, coming to a sudden and worrisome conclusion. “Cardinal Richelieu?”

At that, Rose turned back to look at him in bewilderment. “Richelieu? Like, the rubbish one?”

“‘The _rubbish_ one’?” The Cardinal echoed, affronted. But Rose paid him no mind.

“How come he looks just like you?”

Yes, the Doctor was rather stuck on that, too. But the Cardinal seemed to dislike being ignored, especially by a woman as pretty as Rose. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he ranted. “I am an advisor to the King and traveling on urgent business, but even supposing I was _not,_ my mode of transportation is none of your concern. Foul-mouthed woman! Leave my property immediately or I’ll have you both taken into custody! ‘The rubbish one,’ indeed,” he finished, his voice a petulant mumble.

“Really,” Rose said with an impish grin over her shoulder, “the resemblance is _uncanny_. Down to the pout, even!”

“I do _not_ pout,” said both men at precisely the same time—while pouting, which did not particularly help their case. And then, to Rose’s continued amusement, both men glared at one another, and then at _her_ when she burst into laughter.

“Oh my God,” she managed, one hand pressed to her cinched side that had started to ache from all the running and gasping for air. Her laugh sounded a bit strangled. “You should see your _faces_!” And then, unfortunately for everyone involved, Rose fainted dead away.

-

When Rose woke in the TARDIS, she was no longer wearing the tightly-laced bodice or miles of brocade, but her usual uniform of denims and sweatshirt. The Doctor had carefully washed away the remains of the muddy street, and the even muddier dungeons where they’d spent a few fraught minutes in custody. 

And he was left to the unpleasant task of informing her that he’d met, been rescued by, and then in turn rescued the famed Musketeers—all while she was unconscious.

She was going to be _furious_.


	23. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "If you're still accepting prompts I'm craving some sexy-intense-lounging-like-a-panther!Nine x Rose! (SFW or NSFW, whatever your comfortable with)"  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose
> 
> note: I went mature-ish, but still feel like this is safe for work. Let me know if you feel otherwise and I can change the rating.

“You know you do this… thing,” Rose begins conversationally, rolling onto her side. Her hair fans out over the pillow behind her, catching gold in the light from their bedside lamp, by which the Doctor is currently reading. But he pauses at her words, looking down over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses.

“A ‘thing’?”

Rose nods, her flushing cheek rubbing against the cotton. “Mhm, a thing.”

“What sort of ‘thing’?” he asks, putting aside his book. It’s interesting, of course, but not as interesting as whatever is bringing that heat to Rose’s cheeks.

“You were doing it just now,” she evades. “Like, sort of a… _lounging_ thing.”

He doesn’t laugh outright, but he grins despite himself at her tentative tone. It must be good, whatever Rose is thinking, to make her look like _that_. And her heart speeds along like the wings of a butterfly. “What 'lounging thing'?”

Her smile is the sun where his is the moon—similarly shaped, but hers is infinitely brighter. He can remember a time, not terribly distant, when he had thought that smile to be as separate from him as any star in the sky. But then, their relationship had evolved into _this_ —nighttime rituals and shared airspace and having a side of the bed that belonged to her—and her smiles had only grown. Brighter, the closer he came. And more focused: she has special smirks and fond grins, reserved only for him. He is part of her orbit.

Still, it occasionally catches him off-guard, to see her twinkling up at him like a patch of starlight.

“Tell me,” he insists, leaning down over her as if his proximity might overcome her uncharacteristic timidity. And she huffs, though he doesn't know why; _she's_ the one who mentioned the so-called "thing."

“It’s a sort of… lounging… broody,” and at some point her eyes drift away from his, unable to maintain the contact, “intense... _‘look at my long limbs, Rose, don’t you want to just… climb me like a tree,’_ sexy kind of… _thing_.” And as if to prove her point, her gaze drags down over him, taking in the deep vee of his maroon sweater, his loose track pants—her purchase, of course—and his boldly bare feet. 

He thinks that maybe she sees something in the careless sprawl of his limbs, one leg bent while the other stretches, head propped on one hand, chin at an angle. And maybe there is—has always been—a part of him, trying to tell her:

_I am open._

Truthfully, he’s always found this body rather oddly-proportioned, all gangly-limbed and too wide in the shoulders, and that's not to even _speak_ of the ears. But the way Rose looks at him… the way she _always_ looks at him, only magnified by lamplight and that blessed, unbelievable proximity… 

"I've no idea what you're talking about," he rumbles teasingly. He curls over her, panther-like, as if pouncing is something he is not only capable of but intensely interested in doing. They both know it's not entirely true—physically, Rose is his guide, as she's his north star in everything else. He follows her lead. Still, he strangely enjoys the pretending.

Rose must, too. She shivers. But she wouldn't be Rose if she didn't jut out her chin and contradict him. 

"Of course you do," she says, perhaps not aware of the way she inches closer, body wriggling against the coverlet. He can sense the static building in her hair, and the heat between her thighs. Another wonder, even after weeks. "You look like one of those statues in a museum, where the bloke is just laying there so you can see every tendon in his neck—" 

He watches her swallow. 

"—and every muscle in his shoulders—" 

How odd, then, that her gaze is nowhere _near_ his shoulders. 

"—and you just want to reach out and see what all those lines and curves _feel_ like."

The Doctor leans even closer, the warmth of her body mingling, absorbing, heating the air around him. He waits a long moment while the tension in her builds—her pupils dilating, and that lovely single heart pumping blood into her lips and cheeks—and then whispers, "So, why don't you?" 

Something sparks in her eyes. 

He remembers suddenly that humans had once looked at the world around them and decided to create fire. 

It is this same inexorable force that drives Rose toward him, and he gives way, collapsing onto his back so that she can lean over him, hair falling like a curtain. Light filters through it, amber and soft.

It is always like this, with her. A world alone. 

She dips so close that he can smell soap-skin-salt on her. It is something he has lived with every day since she boarded his timeship, and it is frightening how maddening it still is. It's almost like sleeping beside her every night has made him _more_ rather than less aware of how much he wants her, wants to be with her, every second of his ever-extending forever.

"Because—" she mumbles, and he can feel the texture of her voice against his neck. A throaty velvet, soft and scraping. His eyes flicker closed. 

"—unlike those statues—"

Softly, she removes the frames of his glasses and sets them aside. When she returns, her hair tickles his eyelids. 

"— _you_ —" 

He feels it in his gut, like a blow. _You, you, you._

"—are always busy!" Punctuated by a giggle, and his eyes flutter open again, spell broken. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth as she teases him. "You lounge while you're reading, and while you're tinkering—" 

"I do _not_ tinker," he lies, even if it's pointless. She is laughing, and he will laugh with her in the end. 

"—and while you're watching a film or lecturing me about space rats—" 

"They're a real danger!" But he can't keep a straight face under Rose's benevolent amusement. 

"—but you're never just… laying about, _literally_ saying, 'Oi, Rose, fancy feeling me up?' I'd be interrupting!" 

And for barely a second, she almost sounds fragile. He wonders if this insecurity—this fear of "bothering him," though he even _thinks_ it in absurd and gratuitous air quotes—was the source of her tentativeness earlier. As if he didn't welcome her every minute interruption to his schedule. As if she hadn't shaken his world up in the most profound way, purely by being present in it! As if he didn't love her for it!

His hand slides up—over her thigh, now flexed as she holds her weight above him; tracing her rounded hip; skimming her ribs and the side of her breast; drifting gently up her throat—to cradle her jaw. " _Rose_ ," he says. His fingers are long enough that his thumb brushes her lips, while his ring and little fingers curl under her ear and into her hair. It is gratifying, how she nuzzles deeper into his palm. 

"You would never be bothering me. _Could_ never." Her breath puffs warm against his thumb. "In fact," he continues, leveraging his gentle hold on her to bring her face closer, back down to him, "I _insist_ that you interrupt me—whenever you like. Even just to touch me." When her stomach finally meets his, warm through her pyjamas, relief relaxes them in tandem. He can feel each muscle in her abdomen loosening, visible relief making her jaw go slack, and her head drops down to rest against his shoulder. " _Especially_ to touch me." He releases her face, fingers drifting down her neck and spine, catching on each notch, until he reaches the base.

"It's not something the Time Lords did very much—touching. Or if we did, it usually had a purpose." He begins to journey up her back again, dragging the flimsy cotton with him so as to touch more of her bare skin. It prickles, from the chill or his touch—but Rose's breathing catches and then slows.

"I've had a few… more tactile bodies, of course. But I've never had someone like you—"

His hand curves around her ribs, spanning from the bottom-most rung to the soft underside of her breast. Her breath catches again, and her nipple tightens against his chest as she wriggles. 

"—who wanted to touch _me_ , just for the pleasure of it," he finishes, speaking low into her hair.

"That's a shame," she sighs, and it's the sweetest of sentiments. "You're lovely to touch."

He laughs. "Not as lovely as you.”

Rose’s face lifts, to look down into his again; her gaze is wide open, star-bright and golden. Her lips are flushed with the beginning of something not yet completed, growing and stirring between their bodies as they breathe in synchrony.

“So… why don’t you touch me then?”

So, he does.

He _does._


	24. Love and Toasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Darthtella  
> Prompt: "Tentoo trying to do simple tasks while he's still half-asleep. I have the headcanon that he needs like an hour and three cups of tea before he's actually functioning."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

She wakes up to a crash.

And her first thought is: _Not again._

“John?” she’s asking, before she’s even out of bed. Her voice cracks from disuse, so she tries again, shaking herself awake. “John!” She’s been trying to get them both used to his new name—that is, not his _new_ name, but the one he has chosen for his public and professional life.

The problem is that he rarely answers to it. And never before nine a.m.

She throws off the coverlet. “ _Doctor!_ ”

The answer is muffled. “In here…”

It’s only a moment before she’s on her feet and into the kitchen, still wiping sleep from her eyes. When she blinks the early morning fog away—what is he _doing_ at this ungodly hour?—she finds the toaster lying sideways. On the tile. Unplugged.

The Doctor—John—her flatmate—simply blinks at her. His hair is the chaotic mess she’s gotten used to, stuck up on one side and completely flattened on the other. Like her, he’s still in his pyjamas, only he’s missing a sock. And he’s got his glasses on, but they don’t seem to be helping anything.

“What happened to the toaster?”

“Well.” The Doctor takes a deep breath. He seems to be working up the energy to glare at the overturned appliance, but can’t quite manage. Instead, he squints. “The toast wasn’t coming out, Rose.”

Perplexed, she glances back and forth between the toaster and the Doctor’s narrowed expression. “So you… threw it off the counter?”

“Of course not,” he replies. He sounds rather indignant, but mostly dazed. “I turned it over. To shake the toast out.”

“All… right?”

“And I dropped it. The toaster, that is. Not the toast.” The Doctor falls onto his haunches, long limbs akimbo. And while he does glare—quite fiercely, too—at the toaster, he makes no move to touch it. “The toast still won’t come out, Rose.”

Yawning, she brushes past the Doctor—easy to do while he’s in that silly caveman sort of pose. Really, he’s just so ridiculous in the mornings. She shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point, but in her defense, it’s all still a bit new. So, she patiently reaches for the toaster, returning it to its rightful place atop the counter. 

When Rose peers down into the little toasting slots, it’s no surprise that she finds no bread. Not even a crumb. “John,” she tries patiently. “You forgot to put the bread in.” She gets no response, aside from him slowly righting himself and staring vaguely in the direction of the refrigerator. “John? Doctor?”

“Hm?” He looks over, blinking sleepily. “Sorry, what?”

“You didn’t put the bread in. That’s why no toast came out.”

“Oh.” The Doctor’s brows furrow. “Right. It must be somewhere else then.”

Rose chews her lip to stop the smile. _Of course it must be._

-

By the time they find the bread—naturally, it’s in the crisper: two pale little pieces of sliced Italian loaf (and she _shudders_ to think of him using a knife at this hour), stowed carefully between two individually shrink-wrapped courgettes—the Doctor, or John, or _whatever he wants to be called_ is finally awake enough to look sheepish. 

Today’s mishap is just another in a long line of early morning antics, and as Rose walks him through the trail of carnage—which includes lighting a flame under an empty kettle. A Doctor classic!—his face grows increasingly red. He finally breaks when she reveals the butter knife lodged inexplicably in an otherwise untouched block of Swiss cheese, which he has unceremoniously shoved into a cupboard full of mugs. 

His hands rake through unruly hair as he cries, “Rose, why am I so _rubbish_ at all this? I can perform six complex equations _simultaneously!_ I can chart the approximate distance of every star in this sky—down to the lightyear! But I can’t manage to make myself toast for breakfast!” He then collapses into one of their two kitchen chairs, leaning heavily on his elbow. She doesn’t point out the water seeping into his sleeve—presumably a bit more mess left behind by his sleep-dazed self. There doesn’t seem to be much point. He’s clearly distraught.

Silent, she sits beside him and slides her hand into his. Because, sometimes, it feels like the real language they share: one of touch. Rose knows that it’s more eloquent than she’ll ever be with words. And touch had once spanned their differences in age, in species, in intellect, in experience. Now, it only has to span their kitchen table.

How lucky they are, she thinks.

“Doctor,” she says softly, and he looks up at her with those tired brown eyes, magnified by lenses. “You have to think of it like a regeneration. New body. New habits. It takes time to adjust.” She squeezes his hand, and is gratified by the way his fingers tighten around hers, too. “Clearly, you just… aren’t a morning person anymore. And that’s _okay,_ yeah?”

The Doctor doesn’t seem to buy it, but he nods anyway, like an obedient—if petulant—child.

“And you know,” she says mildly, “you could always wake me up. My door’s always open.” Rose can’t help looking away as she speaks, her hand going limp in his. She’s been trying not to pressure him, to force him to act on anything he’d said in the heat of the moment. But really, she misses his bedroom being her office.

She misses _him._

“Or we could share,” she adds, forcing herself not to chew her lip to the quick. She hurries the invitation along with a breathy laugh. “My bed’s massive. And it’s certainly easier to share than it is to put child locks on the refrigerator.”

The Doctor’s lips quirk. “ _There’s_ a thought.”

“Don’t you dare. We’ll be locked out of our own cupboards!” She lets her head tilt until she is leaning on his shoulder, familiar in shape and strength, smelling strongly of sleep and his new shampoo. Her eyes blink closed as she breathes deep. “I’m serious. I like who you are. I want you to be happy here.”

The Doctor’s arm creeps around her, and Rose feels warmed through. The calm moves through her like slow-melting honey, settling her closer against his side. His flannel pyjamas are soft under her cheek.

“All right,” he says after a long moment of quiet. “We can do that. Share, I mean.” His voice is faint as he adds, “It’s long past time, anyway.”

Her peep of pleasure comes out before she can stop it, and she hurriedly buries her face in his shoulder to muffle any other embarrassing noises. “Okay,” she replies, trying to sound casual. But her poorly-hidden face is blushing, and she is failing spectacularly at sounding anything other than ecstatic. _Finally,_ she thinks. _Finally._

The Doctor’s shoulders shake with laughter. She feels a rush of warm air against the top of her head, and it must be from his lips. The Doctor, her Doctor, John—he is kissing her hair. And he whispers, “What would I do without you, Rose Tyler?”

“Starve, I imagine,” she pronounces, pulling her bright red face away before she can make more of a fool of herself. She’s up like a shot, filled with an excitable energy that she hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “Let’s get you some toast, yeah?”

To the Doctor’s immense satisfaction, the browned bread pops happily out of the toaster this time, perfectly warm and golden. And Rose is pleased to say that it continues to do so for the foreseeable future.


	25. Weightless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Hardy showing Rose his rarely seen soft, sweet, romantic side!! (And showing off his expert kissing skills???)"  
> Pairing: Hardy x Rose

It’s worth mentioning that she didn’t intend to fall in love with him.

It’s equally important to address the—well, the _issue_ of his face. That had nothing to do with it.

It was really more of the… everything else.

-

“Ms. Tyler, there’s someone in your office—”

“Shit.”

Rose ran clammy hands over her button-down, smoothing away nonexistent wrinkles and wondering if her lipstick had smudged at lunch. It would serve her right, really, for eating cup noodles instead of something from Torchwood’s perfectly lovely salad bar. 

Her expletive seemed to catch Amy off guard, and her PA’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “He didn’t have an appointment, but he says he’s the liaison from the—”

“Yes, the Metropolitan Police Service,” Rose finished for her. _That_ was a front. She eyed her office door—closed, nothing visible through the frosted glass—as though it were a live bomb.

Actually, live bombs made her _less_ anxious. She had a tolerably good track record at disarming them.

“Should I escort him out?” Amy asked, voice low and conspiratorial.

“What? No!” She must’ve looked _properly_ nervous, then. Rose took a steadying breath and tried to smile. “That’s Hardy.”

Amy once again boggled, hazel eyes round as salad plates. 

_God,_ why _didn’t I go for the salad?_ “Is my lippy smudged?”

“No, you look perfect. But— _the_ Hardy?”

Rose just nodded. That was one way of describing him. “I haven’t seen him since before the last case. I think… he’s surprising me?”

Amy did her best to stifle a grin, but still looked immensely pleased as she whispered, “He was carrying a bag…” Her non-smile widened. “It smelled like chips.”

“Now I _really_ wish I’d skipped the cup noodles,” Rose sighed wistfully. But still, with a final wink from her PA, she straightened her shoulders and determined _not_ to chew all traces of color off her lips, stretching them instead into a tight smile. She entered her office looking every inch like the most powerful woman at Torchwood.

-

Hardy stood at the far window, looking out over the city traffic, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets—something he did when he was thinking. On her desk sat his little brown bag of probably-chips, radiating the heavenly—and verifying—scent of salt and starch. Before she could say anything, or so much as close the door behind her, he was already turning, his mouth screwed up in a familiar frown. It was almost a scowl. 

For a long time, that very expression had made her unspeakably nervous, but now, she was just pleased to see it. To see any expression at all, on that familiar face. She gave a little grin and a wave.

“Hi.”

“You’ve already had lunch, haven’t you?”

“How'd you guess?" she asked, walking deliberately around her desk, and if her hips swayed a bit more than usual—well, she could hardly be blamed. But Hardy simply shifted his weight and frowned at the greasy takeaway bag like it had done something to him.

"I got held up at the chippie."

"That's all right." She sank down against the edge of her desk, waiting for him to approach. That was the thing about Hardy. He was skittish—sort of feral, most days. It was best to let him come to her. "I _do_ love that you think chips constitute a proper lunch," she added with a tongue-touched smile. "Man after my own heart."

At that, his frown began to fade. "And I'm sure your meal was _much_ healthier. What'd you have? Packet of crisps? Three cups of coffee?" 

She bit down her grin. "Cup noodles."

"Ah, sodium. The foundation of any proper meal."

"On that, we can agree."

“My cardiologist would _not._ ” He was closer now, looming over her with all the advantage of his height, his brogue rolling through her like a current. A few more words and he’d probably have her pinned against the desk. Not that she was complaining. He smelled like reams of paper and tea with cream and she _wanted_ to pull him close, close enough to snog the lingering frown right off his lips. 

But instead, she shrugged, like nothing in the world could bother her. “Guess it’s a good thing they’re for me.”

He stepped closer. “You’ve no intention to share, then?” The air around her started to feel heavy, thick with that unique tension. She’d felt it the first day they’d met—to her horror, at the time—and hadn’t been able to shake it since. But maybe that was just the touch-and-go nature of their relationship. 

After that initial case, when they’d crashed together like two asteroids out of orbit, they hadn’t ever been in the same place for more than a few hours at a time, always passing like ships in the night. Then she’d taken over for Pete, and Hardy had gotten promoted to a special _hush-hush_ department, and their working relationship had been _forced_ to take priority, allowing no resolution to the tension that had built, no outlet for the pressure. They just met for occasional lunches and meetings and exchanged polite handshakes. 

Maybe a kiss, if someone lost their head a bit.

Alright, maybe a _few_ kisses.

But it had all been strangely disconnected and Rose, used to the live-in relationship she’d once shared with the Doctor all those years ago, was left in a constant state of limbo. Unable to grow past the butterfly-bellied first stages of feeling, left constantly wanting something that she couldn’t _quite_ have.

And now, he was here.

Back. Back in her office, with chips.

Was he back for good?

She realized she hadn’t answered him—hadn’t said anything at all. She’d hardly been _breathing._ Just staring up at him, jaw hanging open. She forced her mouth shut and blinked away the fog that had gathered at the edges of her vision, framing him with afternoon glow and setting aflame the scattered strands of copper in his hair. “No,” she said softly, eyes skimming the freckles over his nose, and the corner of his mouth which seemed like it was _just_ beginning to twitch. In fact, he looked quite amused by her lapse in concentration. She cleared her throat. “They’re all mine.”

At that, his lips _really_ curved. Just faintly, but enough to give him away. “It’s good to see you, Rose,” he said softly. And Rose shivered at the way he said her name, the way the consonants lingered around the edges, the deep dark flavor of the vowel. Nobody else said it the way he did, and she felt it all the way down to her toes.

“You, too. Are you… back?”

His fledgling smile only widened. And he nodded. “I think so.” His hands dropped down to her desk—trapping her or framing her, she couldn’t say. It felt good, though. Right in a way that she rarely felt in this universe. Like time had slowed to the proper pace, and she could finally make sense of the world around her.

She pressed her lips together, but joy still slipped out at the edges. 

“Good,” she pronounced. “I missed you.”

It was amazing, the way his whole expression softened. The residual tension in his jaw gave way, his brown eyes crinkled faintly at the edges—he looked happy. Actually, _properly_ happy. Once, that look had reminded her of another man, someone so important that she’d spent years beating against the bounds of her universe to get back to him. And that fight had brought her so far: through the ranks of Torchwood, to the mission with Hardy, to the office where she stood right now, with these two arms around her.

She’d looked at him once and seen a ghost from her aching past.

Now she just saw—she _hoped_ she saw—her future.

“I missed you, too,” Hardy rasped. The wood creaked under his hands. He swallowed, and took a long, slow blink. When his eyes opened again, they were determined. “I don’t know—it’s stupid… Rose, I _always_ miss you when I’m gone.” And his words—so sweet, so soft and unexpected—were swiftly followed by a searing kiss, bowing her head back so she had to grip him for balance, arms sliding up around his neck to tangle in the hair at the nape. She tasted strong tea, steeped to bitterness and sweetened with cream. The dichotomy of Alec Hardy.

His mouth over hers was heavy, stealing away all the air in the room until she felt like she was floating—weightless.

When she pried herself away, gasping for precious oxygen, she panted out, “How long can you stay?” She didn’t know what she was asking, exactly. About his stay in London? This lunch visit? How long he wanted to stay with her?

But Hardy just smiled, his thumb curving over the edge of her eyebrow and across the apple of her—no doubt quite pink—cheeks. Softly calloused, deliciously warm. Her stomach dropped at the look in his eyes.

“As long as you want me.” 

And then he kissed her back to weightlessness. 

And with the weight of his body, the soft pressure of his hands, he dragged her back to earth.


	26. Of the topmost branch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous (oh, yes, very anonymous)  
> Prompt: "phone sex eight sequel (this is a prompt)"  
> Pairing: Eight x Charley x Rose
> 
> please note that this is a follow-up to the ficlet in chapter eight, titled "from which we were absent." also, be advised of the rating change! this ficlet has bumped us solidly into mature territory, i think.

His name, it turned out, _was_ actually John Smith—a comical twist of fate, given how unconventional he was in nearly every other sense. Charley was so disbelieving about it, in fact, that she asked to see his identification on their first unofficial date (the next morning, in the coffee shop). But there it was in ink: John Paul Smith, born on the twenty-seventh of May, 1983. Brown hair, blue eyes, and an organ donor.

It turned out that he was a graduate student working on his thesis, and the phone sex operator thing was a side-gig to keep him housed and fed. "I keep odd hours," he explained unabashedly, "so I needed something... flexible." (Rose felt a little thrill tremble down her spine at the way he said "flexible." And under the table, Charley knowingly squeezed her hand.)

"It pays well, then?" Charley prompted.

John snorted. "Oh, yeah. Fairly. You should see the bill." His eyes shifted over to Rose, who was sipping industriously at her cup of glorified caramel milk-foam. He grinned. "That is, you will. I knocked a bit off your time because you two were such fun, but… generally, it pays rather well, yes."

Rose's belly swooped, and she tried not to feel too pleased by his supposed special treatment. "So," she asked, nose wrinkling, "I take it most callers aren't like us?"

But John's pale eyes sparkled. "A couple, you mean?" 

At that, she bit her lip and exchanged a shy look with Charley; they'd both agreed, long before yesterday’s unbelievable meeting, that without that fateful call to break down their barriers, they might have gone on denying their feelings until graduating, and possibly even parted ways after that. Though, it was hard to believe such a thing possible, with how close they were now.

Eyes darting between them, John chuckled outright at their silent communication. "You two really _are_ adorable, you know."

"Well, it’s all really your doing." Rose watched him carefully as she admitted what he likely already knew. "You led us somewhere we hadn't allowed ourselves to go before, except in the privacy of our own heads. But," her mouth pursed thoughtfully, "I guess that's what you do, isn't it?"

_Shit._

Rose winced at herself, at her clumsy thoughtlessness.

It was impossible to miss the way his smile went wistful before sliding off his face, and the way he only shrugged with one tense shoulder. "Yes, I suppose so."

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Right,” he cut in, “I know you didn’t—”

To her surprise, it was Charley who reached across the table and touched John’s hand—the one wrapped around his paper cup, fingers flexing and relaxing as he and Rose struggled to speak. Beneath the table, her grip on Rose was tight. "We're not judging you,” Charley said firmly. “We're… it's silly, but we're _grateful._ Really." And then she released him.

Rose watched Charley's hand. The way it fisted on the table, as if trying to contain that simple touch, to keep it tight in her palm. And she felt like a top shelf idiot for nearly spoiling something that could, if she let it, be so _good._

"God, yes," she rushed out, voice faint with panic. "We're the _last_ people who would judge you for how you make your money. I mean," she smiled impishly, "at least you’re earning a living. I want to be an _artist!_ I’ll be paying back loans forever, if I can pay them at all." The feeble joke dissipated the tension in John’s shoulders, and she felt herself relax with him. “What I mean is… thank you. For helping us… be honest, when we didn’t know how to be.”

“Yes, exactly,” Charley echoed. “Thank you.”

“In fact, let us thank you with dinner,” Rose blurted impetuously. “Or lunch. Or, I mean, I suppose we could do coffee again, but—”

Before Rose could talk herself into a tangled knot of incoherence, John stopped her. He reached across the table, and touched the tips of her fingers, just as Charley had touched him. It felt like the completion of a circuit, sending Rose running through with electricity. 

“I’d like that,” he said softly.

-

On their fifth date—though the word “date” was perhaps a stretch—he got a call.

Not just any call. A work call.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, scrabbling for the remote control while the sound of rattling metal and heavy footsteps echoed throughout the flat. The Army of Mordor was marching right there in the living room, but all the hordes of darkness seemed unable to capture the trio’s attention. The girls watched John flap and flutter like a panicked bird. “I forgot to tell them I wouldn’t be on—I’m _so_ sorry, it’s a Friday, you know… and—and that’s one of my busiest nights— _Hello?_ ” His voice changed to a very brusque, professional tone for a moment. “Girls, I’m sor— _Yes, this is he._ ”

“John!” Rose laughed.

“It’s fine,” Charley soothed.

“Really,” the girls said in tandem, voices rising over the cinematic swells of music and John’s frantic muttering. Charley glared across the couch at Rose, who was sprawled out like a lounging queen despite all the upset. “God, are you _sitting_ on it? You're such a sofa hog!”

Rose shifted and—finding the remote wedged beneath her thigh—hastily reached down to pause the film. “Sorry,” she whispered to the room at large.

Into the sudden silence, John said—almost _too_ loudly, “Got it. Dominant, emphasis on threats of spanking.” His cheeks went a bright pink, and he tried to duck out from between the couch and the coffee table, but the girls had him rather boxed in with their legs. “Right, and praise. Anything else?”

Rose’s eyes went wide, and she grinned at Charley. “Blimey.”

“Yes, you can put him on.” They heard the faint sound of the line _clicking_ , and then John turned to them—head whipping back and forth like he wasn’t sure where to look—expression unbelievably apologetic. “I can go,” he began again, his voice a low whisper over the sound of ringing. “I don’t know how long… how long this will take. Or I can use your terrace, so you can keep—”

“ _John._ ” Charley reached out and snaked an arm around his waist, spinning and tugging him forcefully back down to the sofa. “It’s _perfectly_ alright. We’ve seen _Return of the King_ loads of times.”

“Mhm,” Rose mumbled, rising to her knees so she could look him in the face. There was something endearing about his nerves, about the flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks; she wondered if he’d been anxious before taking the call with _them._ Or if this was just performance anxiety. “You’re welcome to sit right here on our couch and take your call.”

“And you’ll both… just stay? Here?”

With a mischievous grin, Rose replied, “Oh, I’d love to see a ‘Master’ at work.”

Charley just rolled her eyes at the pun, and dropped her hand to John’s arm to get his attention. His eyes ducked over her fingers before sliding up to her face. “Or we can stick to the kitchen. Maybe make some more popcorn.” Her fingers smoothed over his bare forearm, tracing along the pale blue veins that stretched between his rolled sleeves and his open palm. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. We don’t want to interfere with your job.”

John opened his mouth to speak—

Right as the line picked up. “ _Hello?_ ”

His eyes squeezed shut in concentration. “Is that how you address your Master?” he clipped out, sounding a bit breathless. And his voice had that low tone again that he’d put on over the phone—like each word was a stone rolling around on his tongue. The girls couldn’t hear much, but the man on the other end certainly seemed contrite. “That’s _much_ better,” John purred. “Very good. I would hate to have to tan that backside of yours. Now, Adam, you’re going to tell me _exactly_ what you want me to do to you. Can you do that?” 

He paused, eyes fluttering open again, following the gentle caress of Charley’s fingers. “I’m going to take very good care of you, but in order to do that, I need to know what you can handle. I need a… _firm grasp_ of your limits. Do you understand?” He swallowed, and his head darted back and forth between the girls again. “If you do, say, ‘ _Yes, sir_.’”

Rose took a breath as if to reply herself before remembering herself. _This is a job. He’s working._

That time, the caller’s answer was quite distinct. She could hear the moan belying the bloke’s tone. And small wonder; John’s voice was positively _edible_.

Across his body, Rose and Charley exchanged heavy glances, uncertain whether to leave or stay. On the one hand, Rose was already riveted by John’s performance. He just _turned it on_ , like he could flip some sort of switch that transformed his voice into a conduit for fantasy. She was almost embarrassingly interested in hearing more. But based on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the way his eyes couldn’t quite settle on either of them, their presence seemed to make him unsettled, if not totally uncomfortable.

Charley nodded slightly and began to rise from the sofa—but in a flash, John’s hand flipped from beneath hers and squeezed. He turned to Rose, blue eyes wide in entreaty, and mouthed, “ _Stay._ ”

Rose nodded, lips quirking up in a little smile.

And then, satisfied that Charley and Rose weren’t going anywhere, John was silent for a while as the man on the line shakily detailed his fantasies. It was quite amazing to see in action: the way John seemed to listen so intently, like he was taking mental notes on the man’s most personal—possibly even shameful—revelations, which he would then find a way to transform and embody without even being in the room. He would occasionally make noises of interest, though even those sounded bored, superior—inexperienced Rose’s very ideal of a haughty Master. She hadn’t expected him to be such a skilled actor.

On the screen, the orcs were left frozen in mud and pixels, completely forgotten.

And then—a break in the façade. John glanced over at Rose and winked, one side of his mouth twitching in the faintest of grins, as if to say, _I’m still here._

In response, Rose stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure what possessed her; it just seemed like the only way to dissipate the silence that built steadily in the room. And John didn’t disappoint, pulling the phone away from his cheek even though his laugh was nearly silent. Seeing that familiar amusement—so perfectly _him_ , so real and warm—made something in her jump with the desire to draw it out, again and again. 

“Well, I hope you’ve been honest with me about your limits,” John said finally, his tone almost a theatrical growl. “I intend to… _rise_ to meet them. Are you in position?” An affirmative. Rose mimicked it non-verbally, nodding eagerly and bouncing on her knees, drawing John’s eye back to her. On his other side, Charley’s shoulders shook with barely-contained laughter.

“Adam,” John said, nearly in his normal voice, “do you have a safe word you would like to use for the duration of this session?” He paused and waited for an answer, during which time Rose gripped her own ears and puffed out her cheeks like a squirrel. 

Charley shook her head, whispering, “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Entertaining myself,” Rose whispered back, reddening cheeks finally releasing their collected air. Charley snorted.

“Making a fool of yourself, more like.”

John pulled the phone away from his ear once again and whispered, “That’s a good look for you.” As he spoke, his fingers curled again around Charley’s hand. Once again, Rose got that full-circle feeling that made her chest swell with warmth. She paused, nibbling on her bottom lip in sudden thought.

She realized, all at once, that she’d be quite content to do this every day. 

The sitting together on the too-small couch and the films and the three of them all doing dishes in the narrow little kitchen and the interruption and the teasing. The job and the oddness of them being unconventional, more than what was usual. 

She would take it all, happily. 

But instead of giving voice to her thoughts, she went cross-eyed and listened for the muffled sound of Charley’s giggles. That was all a conversation for another night.

And John spoke, his phone voice cracking. “All right. Let’s begin. Spread your legs.”

-

There were more nights like that one, though their loosely-defined “dates” were only occasionally interrupted. John seemed to be intentionally scheduling his work hours around their movie nights and lunch outings and thesis writing sessions and—to Rose and Charley’s delight—their occasional sleepovers. 

Granted, he usually slept on the couch.

But Rose knew they would cross that bridge sooner, rather than later. There was no rush.

As the weeks had passed—turning into two months, three, four—their casual dating evolved into something with more depth, more unspoken intensity. None of them said it, but it started to feel a bit like a habit. The girls kept John’s favorite wine in the pantry, and he dropped by the gallery some nights to walk Rose home from work, unexpected and always welcome. Charley had sensibly purchased him a toothbrush, which lolled in their cup—a tangible reminder of his presence, even when he wasn’t there. “Did you tell John?” and “Have you asked John?” became common phrases in the Pollard-Tyler flat, the reminder of their invisible third and the steady impact he had on their plans, their thoughts—their lives.

And, of course, with everything else came an element of physicality that Rose found herself constantly looking forward to. The first time John had stopped her in the kitchen—one hand covered in soap suds, the other clutching a sponge—and leaned in to kiss her, it had felt like a door unlocking. Something undeniably _right_ , she’d whispered that night while she and Charley shared a pillow. _Do you feel it, too?_

Charley apparently did, though she indicated such with a lot more blushing and a lot _less_ specificity. But Rose had popped in unexpectedly to find them snogging more than once, hands roaming like two teenagers, bathed in blue light from the telly.

She and Charley had talked about it—about the three of them, _together_. Or, as usual, Charley listened and tried to make sense of things while Rose unloaded her feelings and fears. It would undoubtedly be complicated; presumably, none of them had had a threesome, and the girls’ physical experiences with men had been somewhat limited. But it felt as inevitable as every other part of their relationship had been.

It would be good, because it would be _right_. Because it would be _them_.

John’s voice over the telephone was still something that made Rose’s cheeks heat, and she often wished she could replicate the intensity of that first night—the night he’d cut straight to the heart of her feelings for Charley without her even realizing it. He’d moved her limbs with his voice, like a physical presence possessing her. And she _wanted_ that. She wanted it again, but with him there—with his long fingers in her hair, his real and present pulse hammering, the smell of his aftershave in the air.

“Is that what you want?” John coaxed, his voice low and honey-sweet on the line. 

He’d yet again forgotten to request the night off, so he’d gotten an unexpected call in the middle of their reruns of The Bachelor—thankfully with minimal fuss and panic on his part. But Rose could hardly complain anyway, because tonight’s caller had some very specific needs. 

Needs she was _very_ interested in.

“I can just _imagine_ how good you feel… your soft, pink lips wrapped around my cock…”

Charley’s snort drew his gaze as she looked up from her book, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. But Rose had a sudden idea—a flash of inspiration that made her shiver where she sat. It was risky, perhaps. But hadn’t they had enough lead-up? _Months_ of it.

Slowly, Rose let her hand drift—down, down, to rest on his denim-clad knee. He usually sat in the middle of the couch so the girls could stretch their legs over him, but tonight, he was on the far side, leaving Rose in the middle. While her hand soothed lazy circles into the denim, she turned to Charley and reached out, grabbing her knee, upon which her book was propped. Her girlfriend looked up again, brows furrowed in question.

“I’m gonna try something,” Rose whispered, faint as a breath.

“All… right?”

When she turned back, John looked rather inquisitive, despite the fact that he was currently complimenting his client on the shape, texture, and color of her allegedly talented tongue. “I can’t wait to feel it,” he said enthusiastically while eyebrows quirked in that adorable way that made him look like a confused puppy. Rose chewed her lip to keep from smiling. Now was the time for serious, _sensual_ expressions. Not silly grins.

Her fingers slid up his thigh, tangling with the hand that rested open-palmed, just waiting for her touch. She liked that about him—the way his hands always seemed on the verge of reaching for one of them, or her and Charley both, as if he couldn’t get enough. Tactile. But at present, he just looked confused.

He looked even more confused as she tightened her grip and slowly drew his hand upwards and away from him, right until the tips of his fingers bumped her lips. John’s eyes narrowed and he rumbled, “You look gorgeous like that, on your knees.” Though it was undeniably _he_ who spoke, the voice sounded foreign out of his mouth: smooth as silk, wrapping around Rose and making her more determined to carry out her still-forming plan.

She disentangled her hand from his, letting his bare knuckles brushing the seam of her mouth. The contact drew his gaze like a magnet. Slowly, Rose slid her thumb back up his palm, using it to extend his long middle finger. And then, gradually, she did not so much pull the digit into her mouth as let her lips give way around it, giving him plenty of time to grow curious—and to pull away, if he wanted.

But he did _not_ want, it seemed. His gaze was fixed on her even as he spoke pretty nothings to someone else.

Millimeter by millimeter, she drew the finger further into her mouth, letting her tongue swipe over the slightly calloused pad and curve beneath the first knuckle—and then, in time, the second. By the time he was fully seated in her mouth, her pink lip gloss leaving a ring around the base of his finger, his eyes were no longer narrowed, but wide open. John’s pupils rapidly dilated, black swallowing blue. “Yes, that’s perfect,” he crooned, though his voice sounded a bit more ragged than before. 

Smiling inwardly, she eased back, his finger emerging from her lips with a shine. Right before the tip could slip out, she bobbed forward, taking it all back in a long, smooth motion.

His breath caught, and she felt a rush of pleasure down her spine, unspooling low in her belly. Something like satisfaction, only more potent. She wriggled slightly, the motion causing her to tug on John’s fingertip. His whole body followed, leaning toward her.

Tactile, indeed.

Without dropping his finger from her mouth, she shuffled off the sofa and down to the floor, relishing the way John blinked rapidly and his lips parted, leaving him momentarily unable to speak. She took the moment to get comfortable, shifting on her knees, bobbing her head once again, impulsively swirling her tongue around the entirety of his finger and then—with her eyes glittering up at him— _sucking._

Once again, she released him, just as slow and deliberate as she’d been taking him in. She let his finger leave her mouth with a dull _pop_ , guiding his hand back to rest on his thigh.

While she contemplated what exactly she wanted to do next, Rose slid both her palms over his knees, taking in the radiant heat through his jeans and the low, even timbre of his voice. Her tongue darted out to re-wet her lips, and she decided there was nothing for it but to go straight for his fly. At this point, there was no denying what she was after.

He was _describing_ it, after all. In a decent bit of detail.

Still, she looked back up—directly, so that eye contact was utterly unavoidable—and she mouthed, “ _This okay?_ ” She let her hands pass intentionally closer to the apex of his thighs, brushing against what was starting to look a bit—or more than a bit—like a bulge.

His mouth popped open. “Yes,” he husked into the phone, gaze unwavering.

Rose tilted her head.

And, unmistakably, John nodded.

Hands still making slow-moving circuits over his lap, she glanced over at Charley.

Her girlfriend had put down her book—a textbook, from the look of things—and appeared to be watching the proceedings with naked interest, though just to be sure, Rose waited for her nod of approval.

Odd as it was, Charley’s signal of support grounded her: she wasn’t alone in this. Her inexperience was not a revelation to anyone here, and regardless of the outcome, she would still be loved—if not by John, then by her constant Charley. It felt right for her to be present, for the experience of it all to be shared between them. 

As if reading her thoughts, John’s gaze turned to Charley, too, his face an open question. Charley answered with a slow smile, a quirk of brow—and another nod.

The moment held between the three of them in tenuous silence, except for the constant rhythm of John’s faux-ragged breathing.

Rose grinned. If she had anything to do with it, he’d be doing a lot more than panting in a minute.

She rose on her knees and slid her hands up to John’s fly, where she let her hands stroke up and down a few times, cupping around the shape of him. He filled her hand in a way she hadn’t quite expected, but it was undeniably gratifying. She felt him pulse under her fingers.

She gave herself a moment to adjust before starting to undo his zipper. As the teeth parted, she peered back up at John, who looked—

Who looked hungry.

It gave her the courage to slide her hand between the layers of fabric and gently withdraw his cock, careful to avoid the zipper’s teeth. As she chewed her lip in concentration, head tilted to analyze the possible angles, John kept up a steady flow of words that coursed down her back like a current. “You’re so good, so perfect—I’ve been wanting you to do this for ages… imagining it when I close my eyes… Have you been?” She nodded up at him wickedly, as if he spoke only to her, and his eyes flared, lashes fanned out around blown-out pupils.

Slowly, she slid her hand up and down, watching the smooth slide of skin, and wondering at the feeling—like velvet. She tightened and twisted experimentally: watching the bob of his Adam’s apple, waiting for jumps and drops in his voice that indicated arousal, feeling him grow ever warmer and more solid under her hand.

A quick look at Charley revealed another set of eyes, as hungry and intent as John’s, focused on the rhythm of Rose’s hand and the subtle flexing of John’s hips. Every time her thumb smoothed over the tip, his body stuttered and twitched, tendons taut in his neck. The power of it, of moving him the way his voice moved her, felt intoxicating. Charley’s head lolled to the side, and Rose shot her a quick smile.

Through heavy lashes, Rose looked back at John and mouthed the word, “ _Good?_ ”

“So good,” he rasped, gaze hot on hers. “More. Can you give me more?” The words raced through her, the sensation so heady that she nearly forgot the phone in his hand. It was all for her: each tense of his jaw, each flex of his fingers near her cheek. And the tighter her hand, the quicker her pace, the less eloquent he got—his voice cracking and breaking under the strain of sensation, his beautiful, flowing phrases truncated by earthy moans. Until all he could do was ask for _more_.

For what she was already willing to give him.

Rose nodded.

She gave him more; she gave him all she had in her.

When he moaned, she felt it vibrate through his chest and hips, through her lips, touching the back of her throat like she’d made the noise herself. Every bit of pleasure in his body had its origin in her, and it seemed to redouble between them, passed back and forth like an open-mouthed kiss. When he rumbled out more—more _gorgeously_ incoherent words—the tone was increasingly desperate. “You look so—so beautiful like this, like… like a _dream._ Like— _oh,_ like some sort of—I dunno, cock-sucking angel, bloody _fucking_ hell—”

Charley snorted; it sounded closer than she’d expected, but Rose didn’t look up to see if her girlfriend had moved. And she tried not to let her shoulders shake or her teeth scrape him as she laughed at his unexpectedly foul mouth. But when she hummed her amusement around him, John _groaned._

It was a shredded sound, like she’d torn it out of him, prompting her to work harder, faster, until her jaw ached. Her fringe fell heavily over her face, making her nose twitch, but John swiped the hair aside in a second, his thumb grazing the edge of her stretched jaw softly, reverently. “Please don’t stop— _Rose_ —”

The way he said her name echoed and bounced through her head, which felt surprisingly empty—like a balloon floating on an open sky. It was a delicious, dreamy sort of feeling, like she sometimes got when he talked to her. About his thesis. About what he thought of her paintings. About how brilliant Charley was. And her name—his unearthly groan, _Rose_ —felt like a tether, coiling in her belly and holding her fast.

Somewhere over her head, there was the sound of a tinny, distant voice. Very far away. Certainly nothing for Rose to worry about, what with her mouth so intently occupied.

“Oh!” John said, in an abruptly changed tone. His hand left her face. She paused, her mouth stopped still while her tongue still twisted. She dragged along a particularly prominent vein, and his protest turned into a moan. “No, wait, I didn’t—I’m so sor—oh, _sod it_ —” 

And she heard the dull thump of his phone hitting the couch. It was briefly distracting, enough that she released him and looked up to see—

John, red-faced and panting. One of his arms—hand now blessedly free from his phone—had begun to wrap around Charley, who seemed to have inched progressively closer, filling the space where Rose had previously sat.

He looked down at Rose in a daze, a disoriented smile on his lips. “Well, _she’s_ certainly never calling back.”

Rose frowned, and she felt a little stab of guilt. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—should I stop?”

“ _God_ , no,” he panted as Charley settled closer, her fingers twining with his. Rose watched as she pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, by how pleased Charley looked when his eyelids fluttered. Blinking, he looked back and forth between them, utterly baffled. “This is so—it’s just—”

It seemed he had no words. _A rarity,_ Rose thought with a smile.

“Good?”

He exhaled in a huff, blush sustained on his cheeks. “Very.”

“Well, since she’s gone, talk to me,” she commanded hoarsely, biting down on her smile. “I want to hear you.”

She bent back toward him, but waited for the sound of his voice before taking him between her lips.

“' _Like a sweet-apple,'_ ” John said in a low rush, “' _turning red… high… on the tip_ —'” Her tongue swirled, and his mouth fell open on another groan. His fingers returned to her hair as if magnetized. He seemed unable to stop himself raking through it, no doubt mussing it horribly. As his hand tightened, he groaned. “Charley, I—she—”

Charley let out a breathy little laugh. “I know. She’s good.” Rose knew her girlfriend well—knew her tells. She smiled at the pleasure she heard buried in the words, remembered the feeling of kissing Charley for the first time while John spoke into their airspace. She remembered tasting her for the first time, christening their brand new bedsheets, still creased from their package. How everything just seemed to get more and more perfect, the better they knew each other. Reaching new heights…

She hummed, calling his attention back.

“Right. _'On_ — _on the tip… of the topmost branch. Forgotten'_ —oh, God—' _by pickers,'”_ John sighed, his fingers flexing in her hair, rasping breaths coming out like an ancient chant in a hot, halting rhythm. “' _Not forgotten,'_ ” he added, almost an afterthought. As if only barely remembering that he needed to finish the poem. “' _They couldn’t… reach it'_ —fuck, Rose, I’m—” She felt the pulse in her throat and pulled back, smirking as he gave one long, final convulsion, accompanied by an even longer, almost musical cry.

-

“John,” Rose whispered, her voice still raspy from the abuse her throat had taken earlier. “Are you awake?” 

There was no light in the room except what came from Charley’s little side lamp, her textbook long abandoned in favor of more snogging and writhing on the couch, once more starring Rose’s rather spectacular tongue. Then the three of them had snuggled up under pillows and fallen into various states of sedation, a giddy grin plastered to Rose’s lips.

“Mhm,” John mumbled sleepily.

“Charley and I have been talking…”

That seemed to perk him up. He shifted more upright, to look down at her where she rested on his shoulder. “Talking?”

“Yeah, and we thought—would you… maybe wanna move in?”

His arm shifted around her, and she felt Charley stir a bit at their shuffling. Rose’s palm fluttered down to her thigh, running a hand over the tanned skin. If she were to let her hand drift lower, she’d find the smattering of those beloved freckles on Charley’s knee. But she contented herself with the radiant heat, sandwiched happily between two sleep-warmed bodies.

John was still silent, his mouth slightly open. “You really want that?”

Rose nodded. “I know it’s… sort of fast. Only a few months. But I promise I’ll try not to get you fired,” she added with a faint laugh. “We’ll keep our hands off when you’re working.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he shot back with a crooked grin, higher on one side. And he pressed a warm kiss to her temple. “I think I’d like that. The three of us… we’ve got something, haven’t we?”

“‘Something’ is right.” Rose giggled. “You’re not _nearly_ so eloquent when you’re not on the phone, you know.”

“And you can live with that?”

She could. She would, happily. 

John was another puzzle piece in her life, every bit as important as Charley—and just as unexpected. He was more than his voice, or his job, and she’d felt it tonight like an ache in her chest. She wanted all of him, all of them, _together._

“Yeah,” she answered softly. “I can.”

Charley’s leg shifted, her bare foot brushing Rose’s calf. “So can I, in case anyone was asking.”

Rose reached down to tickle her foot, prompting a kick that pushed her and John entirely off-balance. And so she collapsed on top of her girlfriend, squished pleasantly by John’s chest, as they all dissolved into laughter. Three bodies on that too-small couch. 

Rose couldn’t imagine a better life.


	27. Nosy Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Someone commenting on the age difference between Rose and 12."  
> Pairing: Twelve x Rose

He catches sight of her over at the bar, though—and he’d never admit it, not under pain of death—he could probably follow her by sound alone. By smell, even, though that’s even weirder than the sound thing. But he can’t help picking her out of the crowd. She’s laughing sunnily, head tilting back and red lips turned upwards, the long plinth of her neck glowing pale in the low light. Mickey’s beside her—which is the only reason he’d consented to leave in the first place—and he’s laughing, too, snorting gracelessly into his cup, trying to hide his smile behind the foam.

It’s nice to see, really. He’s man enough to admit that—to acknowledge that Rose needs Mickey, needs her Mum, needs seedy little pubs in the scrubby parts of London as much as she needs all of time and space. He’s not quite man enough to admit that she needs it as much as she needs him. But she’s only human, and she needs these visits to remind her.

They’ve been together a long time now, and though he wears the age on his face in a way that’s still a bit strange, she doesn’t. She’s as brilliant, as beautiful as the day he found her. She needs reminding, almost more than he does, that her moments with her friends, her family, her _planet_ are limited. 

_She_ has no expiration date anymore—she’s like him in that way—but that doesn’t mean everything else stops. He smiles to himself. No, nothing ever stops. Not time. Not even for Rose Tyler.

She probably can’t see all the ways she’s changed, because so much about her hasn’t. But eyes follow her now, attracted to the subcutaneous glow, to the subtle aura of her. It is the essence of danger, perhaps, or experience. Maybe they sense she has stories to tell. People want to come close, become entangled in her shining timeline. 

He watches with narrowed eyes as one such person makes his unsteady way to the barstool beside her.

Rose glances over, carelessly flashing the man a regretful smile. He can hear her voice across the bar: “Oh, I’m sorry. This seat’s taken.” She sounds truly apologetic. That’s one of her talents; she treats every person like they’re really there, like they really matter. Because they do, to her. Another gift.

The man doesn’t seem bothered by Rose’s rejection. The Doctor imagines he barely hears it.

“Waiting for someone, love?” The man’s voice isn’t hostile, but it still raises the Doctor’s hackles. The easy use of endearments, the way he seems determined to take the seat anyway—his legs are moving before he can stop them, carrying him through the crowd of people that gather and gripe and laugh and live here in this little slice of London. He pays them no mind; his eyes are only for Rose.

Mickey starts to speak up. “Listen, mate, you should really—”

“Mickey, it’s fine,” Rose cuts in. She tilts her head curiously, her eyelashes fluttering as she narrows her eyes at the stranger. “I’m waiting for my boyfriend, actually.”

The feelings those words— _my boyfriend_ —inspire are conflicted. A heady mixture of pride and frustration. He does like to be claimed by her. In fact, he sometimes arranges elaborate scenarios in which Rose _can_ be protective of him, or express her sense of ownership, purely for the pleasure of it.

And then there’s the embarrassment.

They’ve been together _nine bloody years._ Three—now four—bodies. Dozens of alien invasions and near-death experiences. Several prime ministers.

 _Boyfriend_ seems like such a weak word, when he really thinks about it.

“Really? Pity.”

The Doctor appears at Rose’s side right as she opens her mouth to reply, his hand dropping to her exposed shoulder, overwarm from the tightly-packed bar and the drinks she’s had. He can feel the force of her smile before she turns her head.

“Hi,” she greets warmly, cheeks stretched wide at the sight of him. “You were gone ages.”

He sweeps down for a kiss, lips brushing over her temple. Her normal scent—sun-warmed Spiridonian grass, black tea with cream—is dulled by the heavy smells of spilled pints and too many bodies. But he breathes her deep before letting go. “Sorry, darling,” he says in a low tone. “TARDIS was fussing. Thanks for holding my seat, mate.” He adds, glancing at the slack-jawed hanger-on. He tries for a smile, but it’s hard with this face. Too many frown lines.

And the eyebrows.

People really don’t know what to do about the eyebrows.

The man’s eyes dart back and forth between him and Rose like they’re playing ping-pong, uncertain which party he’s more baffled by. And the Doctor can hardly blame him. Rose, with her effervescent glow and sleek golden hair, shines like the sun beside her washed-out, grey-haired Time Lord boyfriend, with his tired eyes that are only for her.

The man’s shock would be amusing, probably, if the Doctor hadn’t spent a very tense half-hour organizing a flash-mob for…

His eyes slide back to Rose, who watches the poor struggling man with gentle amusement. “Yes, it was very kind of you,” she emphasizes. “But if you don’t mind, I’ve got to buy my bloke a drink.”

“ _That’s_ your bloke.”

 _Oh, you foolish man,_ the Doctor thinks, internally sighing. _Now you’ve done it._

It’s evident the man spoke before thinking better of it, his mouth clamping shut. But Rose is already shifting, her spine straightening, until she’s on the edge of her seat and somehow managing to look _down_ at the standing man. She pins the stranger with the same look she’s given monsters and tyrants—a glare that lives in her eyes, and leaves the rest of her face in a polite mask.

Rose’s voice is unnaturally calm when she answers his non-question. “Yes, he is.”

“Bit old for you, isn’t he?” The man shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He’s like a fly in a trap, aware of what’s happening but unable to stop it. That, too, is Rose’s effect on people. Honey sweet, and just as sticky.

“Do you know what’s interesting?” she asks rhetorically, looking over to Mickey, and up at the Doctor, and back at the stranger as if they’re all just having a friendly conversation. “The only blokes who worry about this—who express what is no doubt a genuine, noble, completely disinterested amount of concern about what is, clearly, quite a substantial age gap—are the ones trying to pick me up. It’s really _quite_ amazing! Don’t you think?” She looks back and forth between them all again, eyebrows arched in question.

The Doctor wonders if he should stop her, but—

Well, Rose is on a roll. And Rose on a roll is a sight to behold. Her whisky-gold eyes flash, and she whips her hair over her shoulder as she looms over the man, shrinking his presence with her force of will alone.

“It’s like… I go down to the shops for a packet of crisps, yeah? And the man at the counter doesn’t bat an eye when my boyfriend pays.” Her voice begins to rise, carrying over the crowd noise. “Or, let’s say I take him to dinner—and let’s face it, I’m a modern woman! I like to pay. The waiter doesn’t care who I’m with, so long as my card isn’t declined! I walk around this lovely world with my lovely boyfriend—”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

She flashes a wink his way before turning back to her bollocking. “—and nobody cares… unless they’re trying to get into my bloody knickers. Which means I’m _forced_ to question whether their concern is really so selfless, and if they’re not, in fact, just a lot of _presumptuous… nosy… bastards._ ” She finishes her thought by poking one finger against the man’s chest, pushing him back with the unexpected force of her touch. Her strength belies her frame.

She pulls black for the finishing blow. “You might think our relationship is unbalanced, or unhealthy, or strange, but you know what’s _really_ strange?” When Rose stands up, the man takes another step back. But she’s already turning to the bartender, signaling that she’d like to close their tab. Her answer is tossed over her shoulder like an afterthought. “ _You_ , thinking that I might care.”

She doesn’t realize the eyes that her on her, but the Doctor does. He beams proudly while women in their seats give affirming little nods, while the bartender stifles a grin. He watches the quiet grace with which she pays—for her drinks, and his, and Mickey’s—and then turns back to her friends. “Ready to go?”

Mickey grins. “Drinks and a show—I think I’m set.”

She smiles back with a slip of her tongue, turning to the Doctor and looping her arm through his. “Let’s go, handsome.” The Doctor glances up at Mickey in time to see him rolling his eyes. But her best friend’s smile is fond, especially when Rose starts dragging the Doctor away from the bar and he allows himself to be pulled.

They turn their backs on the bar and the awe-struck stranger and make for the door. And then they catch it. The bitter voice.

“ _Bitch._ ”

Rose freezes mid-step, whirling on her heel before Mickey or the Doctor have time to react. It’s a matter of milliseconds before she’s stepping up to the man again. 

The Doctor sees it in slow motion. Her arm, arcing in a delicate sweep. Her palm, delivering a resounding smack to the man’s cheek. Like her earlier poke, there is an unanticipated force to it, and the man reels backward, cradling his jaw and crying out—in surprise more than pain, from the sound of it.

Rose doesn’t even dignify the man with a response. She’s back beside Mickey and the Doctor in an instant, mouth a firm line.

When he slides his hand into hers, her face softens, but there’s still an odd light in her eyes. A touch of righteous anger, not quite spent. It takes her a few deep breaths before she can look up at him with a wry smile. “Stupid ape,” she mutters. And then, thoughtfully, she adds, “You know, it is quite nice to insult species sometimes.”

“Hey!”

“Not you, Micks!” She sticks out her tongue at her best friend, fond and youthful as ever. “Never you.” When she turns back to the Doctor, she is still lit by that smile. “Where to next? Home?”

He grins despite himself, toothy and true. “Not just yet.” _We’ve got a flash-mob to stumble upon._

It’s long since time he upgraded from _boyfriend_ , anyway.


	28. So the waters I will test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Artist-in-a-tardis  
> Prompt: "I adore Tentoo but you know sometimes we all need a little angst in our lives so there’s this song by Katy Perry called “Thinking of You” and I don’t know it just would make such an angsty fic from Rose’s pov"  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

**Day Zero.**

Her lips are buzzing, bee-stung from kissing. Wind-burnt, most probably. If she had a mirror, there's no doubt she'd look flushed and pink and possibly even satisfied. But she does not have a mirror, and she is not satisfied.

Of course it feels _good._ She recognizes these lips; she understands their taste and their shape. The pouty bottom one, and the angle of the jaw, and the way he'd shifted to cradle her mouth with his, a motion so fluid that it almost felt practiced, liked they'd done it a dozen times—it felt _unbearably_ good.

But not right.

Nothing feels _right._

As the TARDIS dematerializes, taking with it the last breath of air from their old universe, she looks up at him. The familiar face is heartbreakingly conflicted: there's pain, tempered by resignation, elevated by— _hope?_

He looks down at her.

She doesn't know what he sees on her face. But the hopefulness fades.

She knows he knows.

**Day Three.**

They have tried sleeping together.

That is, sharing a bed.

At first, it was some sort of last-ditch look for comfort. Two scared kids, huddled together on a hotel mattress with the sheets pulled high, trusting one another to fight off nightmares and memories and monsters alike. 

She discovers that he kicks, but also that he has an almost magnetic repulsion to being touched. Each bit of contact he mercilessly makes with her shin results in him sitting bolt upright, blinking into the dark.

They are both exhausted, by the end of the third day. And Rose determines to ask him if he actually _wants_ her there. She rehearses what she should say. "I can get my own room, right next door. You can knock on the wall if you need me. I won't be far away." 

She says it, over and over: _I won't be far away._

And Rose thinks of the Time Lord, from whom she is now irrevocably separated.

That night, when he holds open the hotel room door, the bags under his eyes are unmistakable. Deep blue bruises. A combination of sleepless nights, a new human immune system, and near-constant exposure to Jackie Tyler while they make the slower return journey. What had taken two days of hard riding is now stretching, endlessly.

They are all tired. 

_I won't be far away._

He gestures with an open hand.

Rose nods wordlessly, leading him into the room. As she dresses for bed in the cramped little loo, she can't stop staring at her own gaunt face in the mirror. She looks more than tired: she looks inverted. Hollowed-out.

When she leaves the loo, the lights are already out.

**Day Ten.**

Back in London, everything is different. And everything is the same. 

She's been living with Pete and Jackie, of course, because she'd funneled her entire Torchwood paycheck into the Hopper Project. More on principle than anything else: she hadn't expected to need it, after. And because there's nothing else to do—not until they've set him up with an ident and a job and some semblance of a purpose—he moves in, too.

She doesn't know what to call him yet.

So she doesn't call him anything, if she can help it.

He notices.

**Day Eleven.**

The lights are out. It's long past midnight and she's still wide awake. 

She wonders why they're still sharing a bed when it's _painfully_ clear that neither of them can sleep with the other there. Like two circling wolves, waiting for the other to give first. Every bloody night.

They probably couldn't sleep _without_ one another either. That's the problem.

"Rose?"

His voice is low. Sleep-husked in a way the Doctor's never was. It's sort of unsettling, and she tries not to shiver.

"Yeah?"

"I _am_ him, you know. He is me."

 _If you were, you wouldn't have to say it,_ she thinks. _I would know._

_Wouldn't I?_

"I know," she lies. "Go to sleep, Do—" But she stops, and rolls to her side. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he says. His voice is thick.

Strange.

**Day Thirty-Five.**

A month has passed and she's hardly noticed the time. They have moved into a new flat—together, of course. Anything else would feel like giving up.

It's got two bedrooms. Or one bedroom and an office, depending. They've been sharing while he decides. 

When she comes home from Torchwood—a debrief on the Hopper Project, now officially dissolved—she peeks into the spare bedroom. A solitary lamp is on, and he is hunched over his brand new desk, sound asleep.

**Day Fifty-Seven.**

She kisses him at least once a day, often more, and she can't quite work out why. Maybe because it just feels good? Maybe because it provides a little shot of dopamine, lighting up her nervous system in a way that infuses feeling and color back into her day, into her life—into her _universe._

In the morning, before they part for their respective—their terribly separate—jobs at Torchwood, she kisses him and he tastes like coffee. 

Because he needs coffee now, to wake up. A _lot_ of coffee.

Sometimes she kisses him on the cheek, or the corner of his mouth. "Thank you" kisses and "Hush now" kisses and "It's alright, I forgive you" kisses.

Sometimes she does it for no reason at all. 

And they are both getting better at it, more confident with practice. At night, in bed, sometimes they just lay under the coverlet and _kiss_. She lets her palm drift down to his chest, to rest over his steady single heartbeat. His hands are more questioning, uncertain where to land. He traces the curve of her hip; he flattens his palm against her lower back; he strokes her cheek with his thumb; he tangles his hands into her hair and pulls her so close that it feels like he's breathing her in.

It feels really, _really_ good.

Her core clenches—her fingers tingle with the need to touch—she rubs her thighs together to alleviate the building tension, night after night after night. "Good," she mumbles breathlessly. "Yes."

But not _right._

Nothing feels right.

And she knows he knows.

**Day Eighty.**

"When will I forget him?"

He looks up from his desk. She doesn't know what he's writing or why he's up half the night lately, hunched like a caveman over his work. He applies himself to—to _whatever_ this is with the same frenzied energy he's always had, sliding between the sheets when she is already asleep. Or pretending to be. 

They still do that, though less than before.

His expression is thoughtful. Squinting under his glasses, which have begun to slide down his nose again. 

"Probably never."

That's what she's afraid of.

**Day One-Hundred-and-Twelve.**

It is summer in London and the flat is sweltering. She wakes up with her hair and her sheets plastered to her like a second skin. He—John, they call him at work—is no better. He has kicked off all the sheets, and his pyjamas are slung low on his hips, leaving a gap of skin between them and the sweat-stained white.

Rose looks at it. 

At him. 

At the delicate trail of hair on his abdomen, and the sweaty shirt that's plastered to his chest, and the hair that's utterly flattened on one side of his head, and the sleepy softness of his lips.

He's trying a beard out, or rather—he's perpetually scruffy lately. A five o'clock shadow that lasts all hours.

It tickles, when he kisses her. 

He swallows and she watches his Adam's apple bob up and down. Prominence to near-invisibility, and then back again. Such a hypnotizing little motion, and he doesn't even know he's done it. Rose lifts her eyes to scan his sleeping face, hoping to feel—

His eyes on her. Open.

Rose is out of bed before he can speak, before he can even clear his throat to _try_ to speak. 

She leaves him that morning, in the elevator where she gets off—four floors below him; he's up with the braniacs—without a kiss.

**Day One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Six.**

There is an explosion on the eighteenth floor.

It rattles down the four floors between them and she knows, immediately. It must be him. He's been banging on about this photon accelerator and, of course, she's let him, because at least it was better than talking about waking up beside him every stupid day and pretending she wasn't _losing her mind._

She wishes she'd paid closer attention, so she might know what she's running into. 

"Doctor!" she shouts, taking the stairs two at a time. The air is full of smoke—or dust, she can't tell. 

She doesn't realize she's said it. That she's saying it. Not until she pulls his body from the rubble and feels for a pulse. "Doctor, wake up. Can you hear me? _Doctor, please!_ "

His heartbeat is odd. Sluggish, almost.

It is definitely not right.

**Day One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Seven.**

The heart monitor beeps, and Rose's eyelids feel like lead. Like sandpaper. Blinking herself awake is getting to be impossible after days of looking at the same white walls.

She folds herself over the side of the hospital bed, and lets the tears soothe away the dryness. They should be cleansing, but instead they just sting. She clenches her fist in the waffle-knit and listens to the sound of his breath. 

_Nothing_ feels right. She wonders if it ever has.

**Day One-Hundred-and-Thirty.**

The nurse has to explain everything twice.

 _Of course_ concepts like "physical therapy" and "recuperation" and "taking it easy for a while" are concepts that he cannot grasp. Of course.

He wouldn't be himself otherwise.

He wouldn't be—

**Day One-Hundred-and-Thirty-One.**

She helps him sag into their bed, and he lets out a warm little hum: a subtle appreciation of the familiar smells and textures. He rubs his cheek against the pillow—his pillow.

It's always been his pillow.

On _his_ side of the bed. 

Rose's eyes fill with tears, and she has to close them, and she has to press her fist to her lips to keep all of the everything— _everything_ from pouring out in salt trails and harsh cries. She is discomposed, and she can't be, because he needs her to take care of him. When she blinks her eyes open again, he is looking at her.

She doesn't know what he sees.

But his arm twitches at his side; lifting it is a bit beyond him just now, but she can see he's trying, so she meets him where he is—sits beside him and slides her hand into his.

His palms are so warm. There is a callous developing along his middle finger, from the constant rub of his No. 2 pencils. His fingers tighten around hers, and she wishes she could tangle them together into an inexorable, impossible knot.

Her gut is seizing with the effort not sob.

"Rose," he rasps quietly. He's not supposed to be talking, but he doesn't listen when she shushes him. "It's all right, I'm fine." He repeats it again, squeezing her hand. "It's all right, I'm _fine_."

He might be, but she is not. She is lost. Feelings swirl around her skull like a tornado, indistinguishable, blotting out everything but the blind panic that had sent her running up four flights of stairs in under ten seconds flat.

"I thought I'd lost you—"

It is his turn to shush her, a gentle noise. He looks so tired, but surprisingly calm as he tries to tell her again. "It's all r—"

"Again!" she finishes, her voice ragged with tears. "I thought you'd _died._ Doctor, I—"

"Hey, shh." His other hand flutters at his side, rising off the bed. The hospital band is still loose around his wrist, and the reminder of his brush with death brings on another gale of tears. "I'll be fine. I'll be more careful, sweetheart."

The endearment falls off his lips like a kiss, his soft eyes furrowed and feathered with concern. _Sweetheart._ Is it a human thing, maybe, that he can call her by soft names and show her that he's worried? 

Or maybe it's just a Doctor thing now.

She bends down to kiss him, even though her lips are sticky with tears. It is a slow, hesitant kiss with plenty of breath between. But his lips move familiarly beneath hers, and the hand around hers tightens even more, compressing her knuckles, her pulse thudding dully in her fingertips. Before she knows it, she is gasping for air.

She doesn't realize she's crying again until she pulls away and there's a smudge of days-old mascara on his cheek. He is flushed—black swallowing the brown of his irises—bottom lip cherry red from the blood she'd pulled to the surface. Even with the sleep-smudged eyes and the wilted hospital hair, he looks…

If not _right_ , then something else. She may never feel it—feel that _way_ —again in this universe. But this is something that's maybe, possibly, just as good. 

**Day Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-One.**

"Doctor," she sing-songs, standing in the doorway. She's dressed for bed—like any sane person would be at this hour—but he looks nowhere near ready to sleep. He is hunched over that desk again, raking his hands through his hair, which is a spidery mess in the uneven light while he writes out his memories to keep. He lives in constant awareness that they might fade, or blur with time. Infallible humanity. But he turns at her voice, grinning over his shoulder.

He ogles her without shame, eyes catching on the hem of his t-shirt and again on her long, tan legs. His smile is slow and deliberate, hitching one side of his lips before the other follows. His glasses catch the light as he shifts in his seat and then rises, moving toward her—slow, and then all in a rush.

He bends at the waist to grasp her, and she lets out a squealing laugh as her feet leave the ground. The Doctor holds her in both his arms, bracing her against the door jamb before diving down to kiss her breathless, kiss her out of her mind. 

It is a hobby of his.

Their rhythm is the same—as good as it ever was. Probably better. She nibbles his bottom lip until he lets out something like a whine, mouth falling open against hers. Rose's hips roll of their own volition, and she is pleased to feel the motion reciprocated. She wonders if he actually intends to shag her against the wall this time. Wouldn't _that_ be brilliant. 

This, too, is a thing they do.

Her searching hands trail over the scars on his bare chest. They are just some of the many aches that he will carry in this body, probably for the rest of his mostly-human life. One of the regrets that she will carry, too.

She should never have let him work alone.

She won't make the same mistake again.

His kisses slow, as if sensing her thoughts—or perhaps merely the waning of her attention. The Doctor pulls his lips away and looks down at her with his knowing eyes, as if he has looked into the heart of her and seen everything within. His head tilts.

"Are you thinking of him?" He doesn't sound angry. Or sad. Or even resigned.

Just curious.

Of course he is. He's the Doctor. 

Rose shakes her head. "No, actually," she says truthfully. "I was thinking of you."

A surprised smile bursts over that familiar face, furrowing little wrinkles around his eyes, down into the apples of his cheeks. She feels the Doctor's hands tighten against her hips, and the delicious pressure floods her senses, relieving the sting of her thoughts. As he kisses her again, Rose's head spins.

 _I love you,_ she thinks forcefully, rising above the tide of her senses. _I love you._

She knows he knows.


	29. The voice is stilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Rose Tyler is an oracle in ancient Greece and Ten is a young demigod who has come to hear his quest from her."  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

Prophecies are not prophecies unless— _until_ —they are heard.

Before that, they are madness. 

They are a howling wind, violently unexpressed, inhabiting the halls of one’s mind; they are enough to blind and deafen, and even to strike dumb. To be a vessel of a prophecy is to carry an inhuman burden, and a holy gift.

It is to be one chosen by the gods themselves. However unlikely.

-

As a child, she is slow to speak. Words stumble over her lips, and what she does say holds little beauty and no sense whatsoever. She asks questions no one can answer. She speaks of people who do not exist. And her parents grow worried by their beautiful, otherwise perfect daughter’s unimaginable thoughts; they know she must be carrying something great within her.

Or something terrible.

After five summers, she is sent to the temple—with offerings, of course. The priestesses take her in, which is good. Right. She feels it. 

Every now and then, they ask questions, and sometimes, she answers. They dress her in robes and call her something that is not her name, and not her title—it is too little, too constraining, though she never tells them so. They call her the Pythia.

And for fourteen years, she lets them.

-

She is dreaming again, which means he must be on the move. He has been for most of her life. She calls him the Traveler, because he never really stays anywhere. It must be his godsblood that bids him wander.

Luckily, tonight’s is a good dream: none of the blood or violence or darkness that sometimes dogs his footsteps. He travels light tonight, though she cannot tell where he goes.

Indeed, there is always less detail than she would wish for, even if she had any mind for landmarks and star charts. His surroundings slide by her like half-forgotten memory, blurred and indistinct. Like looking into a clouded pool. It would be frustrating, to know so little about his journey, if it were not for what remains.

And what remains is the feeling. 

He is so alive—so impossibly vibrant. His thoughts rattle through her head in a stream, soothing away her daytime pains. She relishes the connection: the knowledge that they are both chosen.

Two leaves on the same branch. Moved by the same wind.

Sometimes he hums while he walks, and she likes that, too. She feels the rumbling buzz in her own chest like a purring cat. She likes the feel of the road under his feet, and the grass when he pauses for rest. She likes how he walks boldly wherever he goes, because he has purpose.

And he is coming to her, to find out what that purpose is.

The Pythia smiles in her sleep.

-

On the day the Traveler is to arrive, nothing changes. 

The blue-green slopes of Mount Parnassus are still lit with early morning sun, pale orange that will ripen into gold, slowly dispelling the haze of dreamy fog that gathers nightly around the shrine. Even now, the thick weave of fog and hot steam begin to separate on currents of morning breeze; the wisps of pale creatures, immaterial and cold, flicker and fade under the steady gaze of dawn. But one such figure is unmoving. Solid. She enters the temple alone.

Her priests and priestesses and guards awaken while she moves into her innermost room; the Pythia is the only one permitted in this part of the temple, and though it is perhaps a sign of her youth—a symptom of her madness—a peculiarity of her person, she likes to linger in the doorway, just beyond their reach, and watch the bodies at work. Not for the sense of power, or the essence of godly presence she finds within, but for the peace. The quiet.

Here, she can think.

Here, the swelling and pulsing of the prophecy inside her is appeased, and there is some room left over for herself—for Rose. A strange sensation in the place where she, herself, is the least important thing about her. 

She takes a deep breath, facing the open mouth of the temple and the creeping morning that greets the columns. The air from outside is fresh and green, contrasting the hot sulfur smell at her back. But the vapours have become so normal, so much a part of the world around her that she hardly notices them anymore. And yet, some travel hundreds of miles for one breath of the air she has breathed all her life. To hear her voice.

And she has been waiting for one such Traveler.

She tries to take it in this morning—the under-earth smell. The sunrise. The hot air that dampens her hair and skin. The world she has always known.

It will be her last chance.

-

Late in the day, after hours of prayer and meditation, after a long and slow meal under the open sky, she feels the weight within her mind, like she hasn’t since childhood. Something like portent—like nearness. It is easy to play off as a headache; it is common knowledge that the Pythia suffers from unexpected visions, frailties of the mind and body that often leave her indisposed. She dismisses the guards, and gives a final blessing over her attendants, saying, “Rest well. I must pray.” It is all she can manage, with the oppressive feeling that crowds her skull. It is like a thousand voices at once, clamoring.

_He is here, he is here._

The Pythia climbs silently atop her tripod, without help. The isolation of her seat, her empty room, feels less bitter tonight. Maybe because no one is waiting outside her door to hear the fate of their country and crops, their wars and worries. Maybe because she already knows what she will say, what will happen.

This prophecy has been with her longer than the others. It is as much her own as a gift from the gods. It has dulled her mind and stopped her tongue more than once, an invisible hand squeezing her consciousness. 

And tonight, she gives it up. She gives it life and breath. 

She can barely sit still, even despite the dragging hot steam and the clinging of her white robe. It seems an age before a shadow fills her doorway, blotting out her only source of light. There are no torches lit in her inner room; tonight is best served by shadow.

Rose's voice shakes as she says, "Welcome, Traveler, Son of Hermes.” She speaks like herself, and not like herself. She is redoubled, amplified by the towering marble walls. Her words echo back, wriggling and unsure.

“Well met,” the Traveler says respectfully. Even subdued and solemn, his voice is higher than she expected it to be—lyrical. She finds herself leaning toward it. He comes no closer, still hovering at the threshold. “If you know who I am, then you must have a fate to deliver.”

She smiles to herself at his eager tone. “Are you unsure?” Her voice comes back to her more teasing than she intends, lighter—less like the bearer of a prophecy, and more like Rose. “I believe you would not travel all this way without some idea of what I might say.”

“Perhaps,” he shoots back, “I wander because I am bid to.”

“Or perhaps,” she counters, “you wander because you wish to avoid this very moment, and the prophecy I have been bound to tell you. Your avoidance has shaped the course of my life—stretched my time here, in this place. Nonetheless, you are come. And I must unburden myself.”

A shaft of torchlight slices the darkness as he tilts his head. “You sound very…”

“Human?” Rose smiles, teeth flashing. “That is because I have not yet begun. Enter, Traveler, so that I may see your face and tell you your fate.”

When he steps inside, he leaves behind a void—a shape around which the heavy steam circles and twists, slowly leeching in and blurring the edges. And he himself enters crystalline focus. She wants to look him over slowly, take in the body she has been feeling herself inside and beside for years, but she catches his curious eye before she can stop herself. And it is like a seal, binding her fast; she cannot look away.

The boiling, golden light within her twists and writhes, insistent upon being loosed. As her mouth opens, she feels the heat gathering in her throat, changing and shaping her voice into a howl that does not—could not _possibly_ —belong to her, but has always been a part of her.

“ _Traveler_ ,” she intones, though she can only make out what she is saying from a very distant place in her own mind. “ _I know your mind. You have come here, to this mouth of the gods, this holy place… in search of something to steal. I answer with this: You have stolen knowledge both sacred and profane; you have misappropriated that which has great value, and that which could not be given away; you have robbed men of their lives; you have seized hearts that were not yours to own; you have even taken… the most intangible of gifts—time._ ”

Distantly, Rose is able to note how pale the Traveler looks. His face is white and afraid in the dim room.

“ _That is why you run. Because you have not yet found that which wants to be stolen. But, My Traveler and Thief, you have found it here. You have yet more to learn, more to see, and more to take from this earth. Though you will no longer run, your feet will never rest in any one place. But you will never,_ ” and the voice rings out on that word, like metal striking stone, “ _again do so alone. You will have a wolf at your heels… one Chosen of Apollo, the Valiant Child_ — _the Pythia. She will guide your path. Together, you will steal more time than you can possibly imagine for yourself, and for others. And with her at your side, you will be known no longer as the Traveler. You will become… the Doctor._ ”

And then, it is done.

With an unholy groan, Rose tilts off balance. The very legs of her tripod seem to give way, and it is only by the Traveler’s quick movements that she is caught, ushered gently to her knees. The loss of this prophecy, the expulsion of the burden she has carried, leaves her weak and loose-limbed. There is a damp sheen around her temples, and she wipes at it with shaking hands.

When she finally looks up at him—so close, after all this time—his whole face is compressed with shock and worry. Brows furrowed, lips pursed. Through her daze she makes out freckles, sharp and scattered. His eyes are brown, and kind. They search her face just as she searches his. 

Her fingers tremble as they rise to touch his cheek. Real. No longer a vision.

“Doctor,” she says. And the voice is her own. Her cheeks stretch in an unsteady smile. “I’ve been waiting.”


	30. Open Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Pinkthespianlesbian  
> Prompt: "A Nine/Rose Ballet dancer AU?"  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose

When Rose reads the news story—because it’s practically everywhere, shared round all the blogs and the Facebook groups—she feels the same way she does when she sees those animal welfare commercials on telly, or news stories about dogs at bus stations after their owners die. It feels like she’s being squeezed too tightly somewhere: almost a physical pain in her chest. Because it’s just _too sad._

 _He was a beautiful dancer,_ the commenters say. 

_His solo program is what inspired me to start taking dance lessons. I wouldn’t be where I am today without him._

_One of the most celebrated artists of our time. His career ended too soon._

Lots of posts, one after another—all talking about John Noble, the _premier danseur_ for the Royal Ballet, as if he’s died. Scrolling through the pages and pages of performative well-wishing is horrifying, really. It’s a long fall from the top, and it shows in every saccharine word. But she doesn’t exactly _disagree_ with the comments either. 

Because there are injuries, and there are career-ending injuries.

And a torn left anterior cruciate ligament seems to be the latter.

-

“Again! Two, three, four—”

It’s just the three of them right now, developing choreo together, in their sweats and sneakers. Fast-paced music buzzes out of Rose’s battered old boombox—the same one she’s had since primary school, actually, when they used to do this same thing on weekends, on the rooftop at the estate. They’d wait until after sunset, when the floodlights would come on, and dance to Salt-N-Pepa and the Backstreet Boys until someone’s parents came in search of them.

Their musical preferences have seen an update, and they’ve got a rented space now instead of a rooftop, but the structure is largely the same—the three of them dancing for one another, someone clapping out the rhythm and counting them in. Cat-calling and dance-offs and lots of laughs. It’s a little competitive, but it always yields their best results: a fusion of styles, the kind of modern, eclectic choreography that suits their little misfit dance company.

As Rose dances through the chorus again, Mickey calls out to correct her footwork. “Stop improvising,” he laughs. “We’ve got to nail this down _sometime_ tonight.” 

Like she doesn’t already know. Rose rolls her eyes and forces a body roll that sticks and struggles.

They only have a few more days to work out a routine that encapsulates their company’s entire style. Ridiculous, when they’ve been bickering about it all month. And while asking people to bring their own choreo for the first audition is alright, she’s gotta have _something_ to teach at callbacks. 

But she’s feeling a strange sort of pressure tonight—an anxiety she doesn’t often feel when the music’s on and her body’s moving. Nothing feels quite right, and it shows in every step. Rose stops mid-motion, limbs falling like an abandoned marionette, and it’s a few more seconds before the boombox stops playing. She drops her head into her hands for a second, taking a deep breath.

“Sorry, guys,” she calls across the studio, unable to face Mickey and Shareen’s worried expressions.

She hears one of them jogging across the studio, and it’s Shareen’s soft hand that grips one of her wrists, pulling her hands away from her pink-stained cheeks. “S’alright, love,” her friend soothes. “Just nerves.”

But Rose just stomps her foot helplessly. She _hates_ nerves. She _hates_ feeling this powerless, this imperfect, this… vulnerable. She looks up, chewing mercilessly on her lip. “What if no one shows up?”

At that, Shareen frowns. “Rose, we’ve been holding these auditions for three seasons now. We’ve _never_ had an empty studio.”

“Yes, but what if—”

“It’s not gonna happen,” her friend insists, squeezing the tips of her fingers. “ _Someone_ is bound to turn up. And,” she adds with a wry smile, “if no one does, then _fuck it._ We can dance on our own.”

Rose only hopes she’s right.

-

“Looks like _someone_ was all anxious for no reason,” Mickey whispers, drawing close. They both lean on the makeshift barre that circles the room, looking over the crowd of hopefuls as they stretch and chatter. Some of them are returning artists, and they’ll be fast-tracked through the audition process. But there’s a surprising number of unfamiliar faces, too, and Rose tries to bite back her pleased smile at the sight.

“Guess so,” she whispers back. “Where’s Shareen?”

“Running late. She had to catch the bus.” Shareen and her roommate—a med student who Mickey has a painfully obvious crush on—share a car. But Martha’s demanding clinic schedule must’ve taken precedence today.

Rose nudges her friend in the ribs with a knowing grin. “Should’ve offered her a ride.”

But Mickey doesn’t take the bait, his eyes turning back to the gathering crowd of dancers. “Who, She-Ra? She’ll get here alright.” Moments later, a breathless Shareen comes jogging through the doorway. “Speak of the devil—”

“Rose, have you seen who’s out there?” Her voice comes out breathless, her brown eyes wide.

Rose’s eyes dart around the room before returning to Shareen, who is stripping out of her coat and sweats, revealing a leotard and tights underneath. “What? No. Out where?”

“ _Outside!_ ” Shareen hisses. “Like, the building. Oh my God, Rose, you’re gonna _freak—_ ”

It’s almost a command, as if the sudden influx of energy travels straight from the frazzled Shareen into Rose. Her heart pounds erratically as she runs through her list of unlikely candidates. Is it Jimmy out there? Is it the cops? She’s right about to ask when she catches sight of him, and her panic comes to a sharp stop—cut off by shock. It’s all she can do to keep her jaw from dropping, but as it is, the blood leaches from her face and she goes desperately pale. “Oh, _shit_.”

He’s taller than she would’ve expected, and his shoulders far broader. In fact, almost nothing about his body screams “professional ballet dancer,” except for the soft shoes peeking out of his duffel. He’d be lanky if his limbs weren’t corded with lean muscle, and he looks more like a runner than anything else, down to his efficient, if brutalistic, buzzcut. Each feature on his face stands out, blunt and imposing. But he walks with catlike grace, each step perfect and intentionally placed, into the audition room—impressive, given his injury only half a year ago.

John Noble, back from the dead.

He seems unaware of the sudden silence that settles over the room, setting down his rucksack and methodically preparing for his audition without looking at anyone directly.

_His audition._

Because John Noble is here _to audition_. For _her_ dance troupe, with their ragtag crew, their low-budget performances, and their genre-bending choreography. One of the best ballet dancers in the country, if not the _world_. In an old warehouse, so _she_ can pronounce judgement over him.

He even _looks_ odd in the room. Clean-shaven, pale skin clear of tattoos and piercings, wearing the most unobtrusive tank-and-sweats combo Rose can imagine. He’s like a shark in an aquarium: too big for the room, too commanding. She scuffs her tatty sneakers against the floor, suddenly self-conscious when she _should_ be on top of the world. This is the best turnout they’ve ever had, and she’s worked up over _one bloke._

But she doesn’t have time to launch into a battery of self-recrimination. Mickey taps her arm and gestures to his watch, and she knows it’s time to start the auditions. She sucks in a quick breath. And her nerves come back full-force—like _she’s_ the one auditioning.

_You’re being ridiculous._

“Alright, everybody!” She announces, her quavering voice rising over the noise. She intentionally forces her eyes away from the elephant in the room, instead walking forward with her clipboard. “Thank you all for coming today—we’re excited to see what you’ve got for us.” Her voice gets steadier as she speaks, though she clings to her clipboard like a life preserver. “I’m Rose Tyler. Behind me are my mates Mickey Smith, our choreographer, and Shareen Costello, our principal dancer and co-choreographer. We’ll be working through the sign-in sheet in alphabetical order. You’ve all been asked to prepare a 30 second routine to—” and Mickey clicks on the boombox, the beat driving through the much-abused speakers, “this track.” She watches a few heads bob with the rhythm, smiling and raising her voice further. “And we’re excited to see what you have for us today! Any questions?”

As she carefully scans the dancers for any looks of hesitation or worry, she’s forced to let her eyes pass over _him._ He’s looking right at her. Despite herself, she feels her cheeks heat, and she clears her throat, hurrying on to the next order of business. “You’ll have five more minutes to warm up, and then we’ll begin, yeah? And we’ll leave the music on in the meantime,” she grins, “just because… y’know, I fancy it.”

She is gratified by the tittering laughs. And in the very back of the hall, one face cracks a small smile.

-

The auditions pass in a blur, with Rose taking notes and exchanging glances with Mickey and Shareen. Everything is done in front of the whole room, so there’s an energy that she really loves. The dancers who are already familiar with one another clap and hoot their way through the routines, and the newcomers are met with encouraging cheers. It isn’t until _his_ turn that the noise dulls again, turning into hushed whispers.

Without a word—not even to say his name, though he doesn’t need to—he’s standing in the center of the room. Just waiting.

“From the top!” Rose calls, filling the void and re-starting the track they’ve all been listening to for over an hour. “Two, three, four—”

And then he’s moving.

And of course, he dances unlike anyone else.

Not many of the dancers who come to their troupe have much in the way of formal training. Even Rose herself only has a few years of ballet under her belt, and those were only as consistent as her mum’s paychecks. Normally, she doesn’t care so much about that; it’s about the character of the movements, the creativity, the energy. Modern dance, hip-hop, jazz, ballet—all have a home in her troupe. Instead, she looks for people who work well with others, who seem receptive to critique and commentary, who come up with choreography that’s original and bold.

But this, how he moves, is something else. Sharp. Precise. A tightly-controlled maelstrom. Like watching someone fencing, or performing major surgery.

The comparison almost makes her wince. But Rose carefully schools her face as he moves through his original routine, trying not to get lost in the restrained energy. Everything about his body language says ballet, turning her earlier assessment on its head, even as he glides through truncated movements, flexed and tightened for a more modern routine. His extensions become strikes, kicks and jabs, as if he’s fighting the room. Fighting himself. 

She doesn’t even notice until his thirty seconds are nearly up—he’s put almost no strain or pressure on his left leg, finding eerily graceful ways to pull back and send his weight somewhere else. It’s what gives his dancing a sense of repressed frenzy, almost of frustration.

And yet his face is placid. It is not the brilliant smile of the ballet, or the feral wildness—the gritted teeth and emotive pantomimes—of so many other dancers. He barely seems _aware_ of his surroundings, his eyes sliding over his marks like they don’t exist. Like nothing in the room does.

His gaze is turned inward. 

It’s undeniably beautiful to watch, even if it all sharply conflicts with her musical choice. Almost aggressively so. Like seeing the very notes slowed down, stretched taut, visible in front of her. As he finishes, she almost forgets to react at all, and her applause is perfunctory rather than truly appreciative. The rest of the dancers seem more enthused, offering supportive calls and enthusiastic clapping. When he blends back into the crowd, he receives a few hesitant slaps on the back, and he speaks in a low voice. It appears to be thanks.

Beside her, Shareen and Mickey are as loud as anyone else, surprised enthusiasm all over their faces. But Rose is lost. 

She hardly hears herself call for the next dancer, for the next _several_ dancers, and she depends on her friends to take the necessary notes. Her mind is cut adrift in other thoughts, turning John Noble’s routine over and over again, until she’s almost sure she’s memorized it, until she can feel the phantom of his movements in her limbs.

And then it’s the last dancer.

And then it’s over.

She reaches over and turns down the music, but leaves it on. She finds she can think best when there’s something in the background, and there’s _lots_ to think about, even as she thanks everyone for being there and tells them she’ll be posting the callback list within a few days. The chatter and general energy is high as people filter out of the room, in pairs and groups, and still she can’t get hold of her roaming brain. It traces over one singular routine like a video on loop. In fact, she almost misses when he starts to leave, smiling politely and shrugging around a couple loitering in the doorway.

It’s out of her before she can think better of it.

“John!”

Never said one word to the man—a veritable stranger to her—and yet she just calls his name out, across an echoing room. It’s _completely_ unprofessional, and she’s blushing before he even turns to look at her, one thick eyebrow arched.

“Can you stay back a second?”

“Alright,” he says softly. His first word of the day that's been audible to her. His accent is distinctly Northern, clear even across the room, even over the sound of music. She wants to gravitate toward it, but remains firmly in place. He approaches her with that same fluidity, bag slung over his shoulder and expression serene.

He’s even taller once he’s standing in front of her, or at least, he seems that way. She has to tilt her head back just a bit. And close up, his blue eyes are even sharper than she’d realized, rimmed by long, black lashes. He looks at her expectantly.

Now that he’s here in front of her, she’s not exactly sure what she’d meant to say. _What are you doing here? How could you dance like that, like your body was on fire? Like your heart was burning? Does it hurt?_ Her hands flex uselessly at her sides for a long, awkward moment before she says, “Did you choreograph that yourself?”

His eyebrows shoot up again, though she can’t tell if he’s offended or merely surprised. “I did,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It was brilliant,” she rushes out. “The way you adapted the moves to your... well. It’s not normally the sort of style we go for—” And it’s almost instantaneous, the way his shoulders inch up. His hands flex against his arms, white indentations bleeding out from under his fingertips and their heavy pressure.

He shifts his weight, back and forth, just once. “I can tell. You’ve got a very… interesting group here.”

“I like to think so.” Rose grins despite herself. “Not a lot of formal training going on. We like to keep things loose.”

“Right,” he clips out. “Well, I appreciate the opportunity anyway.” He speaks as if by rote, the tension in his limbs tightening until she’s surprised he doesn’t snap, and begins to turn away.

“No, I mean—” Her hand darts out in a flash, gripping his arm. “We could use someone like you. The way you danced was… different. A good different,” she adds, and it takes every bit of her restraint to stop her fingers from squeezing, to let her hand fall away and trust he’ll stay there. “You have this _energy…_ Anyway, I was wondering if you’d maybe teach it to everybody else, for the callbacks? We could—you could come back and we could work on it, adapt it for the other dancers.” Now it’s her turn to shift nervously, watching the expression slowly shift in his eyes.

He softens, just a fraction. “If that’s what you want.”

Rose suddenly reads his crossed arms and closed-off face for what they are—defense mechanisms. A wall put up against rejection. She wonders how many auditions he’s been to since his injury, how many times he’s been told he’s not what they’re looking for. She wonders how it’s possible that anyone could see him, the way he moves, and find it anything other than captivating.

“Of course it is,” she replies emphatically. “I mean, I’d be an idiot not to take advantage—that is, you’re… you’re _clearly_ one of the best dancers we’ve had turn up, ever.” She can’t stop the flush that wants to crawl insistently up her neck and cheeks. Is she fawning? Is she being insulting? She clears her throat. “One of the best in the country, really. _Obviously_ we want you.”

There’s that twitch of his lips again, the same half-smile as before. “That’s not actually so obvious.”

“Right, well.” Rose thrusts out her hand. “Consider this your formal acceptance. I have no idea how you ended up here, but I’m glad you did.”

When he does smile, it’s blinding. Such a strong shift from his self-imposed inscrutability that she’s knocked back a step, caught looking up into his shining eyes. But he ignores her awestruck expression and grips her hand in his. It’s warm, and she feels a tingly _something_ sparking under her skin. A portent of touches to come, or that same phantom sensation. He doesn’t let go of her. 

“Fantastic.”


	31. Four Times The Doctor's New Body Didn't Matter, And One Time It Did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Past companions seeing Rose and thirteen together"  
> Pairing: Thirteen x Rose, though they're not the focus here

**2005\. Sumatra, Indonesia. MSF Temporary Medical Facility.**

“Now, you’re gonna feel a little pinch, okay?” 

The little girl on the table swings her legs and nods hesitantly, though it’s hard to tell if she really understands. Beside the table, the girl’s mother speaks in a calming rhythm, bidding her daughter be still with a hand on the knee. She shoots the woman a thankful smile and turns back to her patient.

With a swipe of an antibacterial swab and a gentle poke, the inoculation is complete, and she is pleased to see that the girl looks relatively unbothered—a rare sight these days. And no wonder. It seems that everywhere she looks, there is nothing but damage and pain from the tsunami. It is written on every face, drummed into every cracked and ruined stretch of road, every crumbled building. Even in their makeshift medical facility, the once-hopeful faces frequently look exhausted, bedraggled. Discouraged, sometimes.

There are just so many hurt people, and they need so much—vaccines, and water tablets, and pain relief, and nutrients. And so many more just need comfort, a sense of stability, after their faith in the world was both literally and metaphorically shaken.

Still, she thinks as she wipes a tired hand over her forehead, at least she’s doing some actual _good_ here. More than she was doing back in San Francisco, in her pristine little apartment and her perfectly hollow little life.

She barely has time to step out and catch a breath of fresh air—humid as it is, and hot—before she’s being called back again. “Doctor!”

Grace looks over her shoulder to see a nurse, waving her into another tent. “I’ll be just a second!” she calls back, turning again to look out over the town. Some of it is still flooded—a sea of red roofs and scattered debris—but the green hills rise persistently in the distance. She wishes for a bit of wind, to cool the sweat on her face.

Like an answered prayer, she feels it—a brush of breeze, no less warm, but a relief just the same _._ And on that breeze, a sound carries. A rattling wheeze, a gasping cry, like—

Her eyes widen, and then she shields them as she seeks out the source of the sound. The flash of blue. She starts to smile despite herself, wondering if he’s here, if he’s come back again.

“Doctor Holloway,” the nurse’s voice pipes up, closer now, as he jogs toward her across the muddy ground. “I’m serious, you’ll want to see this.”

“What is it, Sayid?”

“There’s been a delivery.” She can’t help but smile at his bubbly enthusiasm as he grabs her by the hand, physically dragging her back to the circle of emergency relief tents. 

He reminds her of the Doctor, in a way. One of those brilliant smiles, and a penchant for little touches—never inappropriate, really, just eager. And he’s from Portland, comes the unhelpful reminder. Not _that_ far from home. Maybe they could get dinner or something, once they’re back stateside—

“They just came in, carrying these boxes!” Sayid says breathlessly, sweeping aside the flap of the tent to reveal stack after stack of boxes, all stamped with red crosses. All around the piles are volunteers, scurrying to identify the contents, which are— _strangely_ —perfectly labeled and itemized. “Nobody knows where they came from, they just… sort of appeared and started unloading it all...”

Grace presses her lips together, trying to hold back a smile. “What did they look like? Did anyone see a man? Curly-haired, dressed like he stepped out of a period romance?” Her eyes dart around the tent, around the worksite behind them, but there’s no mysterious Doctor in sight.

“No.” Sayid shakes his head, looking confused by her weirdly specific details. “They were two women, actually. Both British, I think, and blonde.”

“Doctor Holloway!”

At the summons, Grace walks further into the tent, where she is handed a folded note by one of the volunteers. It’s on strange paper; she doesn’t recognize the texture under her fingertips. But her name is scribbled on it in black ink, unmistakable. She unfolds it carefully to see a hastily-scrawled note—just a few lines, but they bring a brilliant smile to her face.

_I knew you’d do great things, Grace. Keep up the good work._

_-The Doctor_

**1983\. London, England. U.N.I.T. Headquarters.**

The sight on the screen is blurry, but that doesn’t much matter when she knows perfectly well what she’s looking at. She doesn’t need visual fidelity—to see that precise shade of blue, or even the Doctor himself going in or out—to know that’s the TARDIS, landed squarely in the middle of a protest.

It’s little wonder why he’s here. With international politics as they are—a standstill that manages to feel part Russian Roulette and part gridlock—the Doctor undoubtedly has plenty to do. Or plenty of trouble to make, she thinks drily as she looks at the security footage. Whether this is intended as a sign of support or disapproval of the protests is rather unclear.

“Has he come out yet?”

“Not that we’re aware of, Dr. Shaw,” one of the officers replies, looking anxiously over her shoulder at the blurry static. “Should we report this upstairs?”

She hardly knows why they’re asking her. Probably because her name’s somewhere in a big, heavily redacted file folder titled “Known Associates of The Doctor.” Probably because she’s stuck around longer than anybody expected—including herself—and she has the seniority required to make these calls. But she glances over her shoulder, at the lips pressed thin with anxious disapproval and the guns at their hips. And she shakes her head.

“As he’s fond of saying, the assembled of Genghis Khan couldn’t get through that door. We’d better wait for him to come to us. If he’s even interested in us.” Without looking back again, she dismisses the men. “Don’t worry—I’ll let you know if something interesting happens.”

And for a while, nothing does. 

She indulges in a brief fantasy about what’s going on in there, behind those more-than-wooden doors. No doubt a bit of lecturing, a bit of condescension. Perhaps offering some mad explanation for a piece of gadgetry. She finds herself smiling despite herself, wondering what he’ll look like this time.

When the TARDIS doors swing open, her lips only stretch wider. This look is new—whichever one of them the Doctor is. It’s hard to tell when two blondes disembark from the ship, laughing at the way the protesters parts around them, like water over a rock. They’re completely unnoticed and they revel in it, giggling like school children before joining the march. She _should_ keep track of them, or notify someone; there’s undeniably a risk in letting things take their course. 

But the Doctor, whichever of these women she is, just looks so _happy._ Absurdly so.

She looks free. They both do. 

Someday, she will look that way; Liz believes that with everything in herself. 

She’s always been one to choose her own path, and rarely has it been the easy one. Dedicating herself to science—to the unbelievable and the improvable and the strange—has often felt like a monumental task, too much for one lifetime. It has driven her to prove herself, over and over again, piling up degrees and accolades like a wall around her, protecting her from those who would seek to undervalue her. She has used science as a shield, defending her against the things that go bump in the night.

But the Doctor, unknowingly, had shown her that she was deserving of more. In his thoughtless, arrogant way, he’d reminded her of her worth. She can thank him for it now, even if it stings.

As the Doctor and her companion leave the frame, Liz watches the static image. The stationary box in the midst of the churning crowd. 

She hopes that whoever the Doctor is with, whoever that girl might be, that she’s doing more than holding test tubes.

**2015\. London, England. 13 Bannerman Road.**

The sun is shining this morning, which is a mercy. 

Rain may be considered a sign of good luck, but it very much isn’t for an outdoor wedding. So, she smiles out into the early morning sunrays, feeling the stillness of her quiet house. Luke is still asleep in his old room; he’d stayed the night so as to avoid seeing Sanjay before the ceremony. Another bid for good luck, like they’re all trying to appease some sort of angry god.

Sarah Jane Smith smiles at the thought.

It wouldn’t be the worst idea.

Their luck holds as they move through the morning’s rhythms. A little slower than they used to be, but there’s something sweet in savoring the day. Luke grins at her over his cup of tea, breathing in the gathering steam. He doesn't need to say anything for her to know—everything is changing, again. Everything is always changing.

But not this. Not for this morning, at least.

Rani knocks on the door while they’re both still in their jimjams, as if aware that such an important morning couldn’t properly proceed without her. Together, they prepare a full fry-up, though Rani jokes that she’s surprised Luke can eat. “Thought you’d be a bit more nervous! Most important day of your life and all.”

But Luke just shakes his head, trying to suppress his smile. 

“He’s faced far more formidable things than an altar at the end of an aisle,” Sarah Jane scolds. “Now, we’ve got to get moving, or we’ll all be late.”

“Right,” Rani teases. “Wouldn’t want Sanjay to think you’d left him at the altar.”

Their luck holds as they dress and leave, though there’s a bit of a mishap with Mr. Smith locking down the whole house because of “perceived temporal changes.” 

Of course it’s a false alarm. Sentimental old thing.

When they finally arrive at the venue, there are so many little things that need doing. Last minute seating changes, and questions about catering and where to put the flowers. Sarah Jane enjoys running around with some of the old efficiency, issuing commands and directing runners. She feels good; she feels useful. She feels like her heart is too full.

It feels like hardly any time at all before the wedding is beginning. And it seems they are still currying favor from above, because the early afternoon sky is a clean, pale blue. The perfect spring day. The only dampness is about the eyes—at Luke's glowing expression when he turns to see Sanjay; at the minister's words about love being a choice, a commitment. As she looks at her adoptive son, she smiles and thinks that loving him was hardly a choice at all. It had been impossible to avoid.

Sometimes the best things are like that.

It all proceeds quite comfortably until the first crack of thunder. It's so unexpected, so completely at odds with the clear afternoon sky, that many of the guests flinch or jump in their seats. Sarah Jane's eyes fly to the horizon, scanning for alien threats with a vigilance that’s never _really_ left. She has long since learned to _always_ expect the unexpected. And as she squints out into the sharp sunlight—not a cloud in the sky—she spots it. 

A shimmer. A whine. A smudge of deeper blue.

There is another crack, like a massive whip. And then, it starts raining.

By the time the Doctor arrives, all the guests are soaked from the unforeseen downpour. "Sorry! So sorry, coming through!" Sarah Jane smiles at the thick, Northern accent and the grey trench, plastered to wet skin. The Doctor moves like a hurricane through the crowd, pulling another woman—yes, she realizes, it's still Rose—behind her.

And then the Doctor is standing there, in all her glory. "Sarah Jane!" she cries, leaning in for a very clammy hug. Not that it matters much; they're both wet to the bone. "Luke! And you must be Sanjay!" She greets the grooms, seemingly unaware that she's put her foot in the middle of the proceedings. 

Rose follows with a fond smile and murmured, more sincere apologies.

She hasn't changed—that much Sarah Jane can see. Not physically, anyway. Though maybe there is a bit more gravity to her than before. But her eyes are just as adoring as ever, even when she rolls them at her Doctor. "She didn't want to miss it."

"Not for the world!" the Doctor cuts in. "Couldn't miss such an important occasion. Of course, we picked up a little sentient rain shower on the way—harmless, you know, but really quite wet!" Sarah Jane tries not to laugh as the Doctor wrings out her hair, to no avail. It is immediately re-soaked.

The rest of the guests have begun to run for cover by now, leaving their little group alone under the arched trellis. The Doctor, seemingly lost for words, pulls Sarah Jane into another bone-crunching hug. She's _strong_ for such a tiny thing.

"We're sorry to show up like this," Rose says. "And we can't stay long, of course, but we wanted to wish you both the best." She looks back and forth at the grooms, both dapper in grey, with one of those brilliant smiles stretching her cheeks. Sarah Jane laughs into her hand at the way the Doctor turns and smiles at Rose, absolutely besotted.

"We're glad you came," she replies, and it's the truth. It wouldn't be right—wouldn't be them—if something mad didn't happen, on a day like today. "Though we'd appreciate it if you took the downpour with you, when you go."

The Doctor looks confused. "If you like! Though… I _have_ heard that rain is lucky on a wedding day! It rained on ours," she adds, beaming at Rose again with that lovestruck smile."Though, that was less of a fluke, really, and more of an inevitability. A bit of rain _is_ expected when you interrupt someone's terraforming!"

For some reason, Sarah Jane can't manage to feel surprised by any of this. The Doctor's new body, their marriage… Maybe it's because of her own children: because of Luke and Sanjay, because of Sky's changing form, but it almost seems like a matter of course that the Doctor would end up here, with a woman's voice and the same old soft hearts. 

She finds herself sharing a knowing look with Rose—feeling a strange tenderness for the human girl who has finally managed to tie the Doctor down.

And from the look of things, the Doctor's enjoying every second of matrimonial bliss. Her eyes return to Rose every few seconds, like a homing beacon.

"You look wonderful," Sarah Jane says emphatically. "Both of you."

The Doctor turns from her wife to smile back, and there's a familiar light in the expression. A warmth that seems undeterred by years of separation. "So do you. You look just the same."

"Oh, nonsense!" Sarah Jane scolds, but she almost believes her. The mad alien. "Now, take your rain shower and let my son get back to his vows."

There is another flurry of hugs—of promises to keep in touch, and well-wishing, and the sort of love you only feel at a wedding when you know the marriage is going to be a happy one—and sure as anything, the rain clears as the TARDIS disappears.

As the guests retake their seats, chattering confusedly about the sudden storm, Sarah Jane looks at the blue sky, and at her ever-growing family, and supposes the rain _did_ bring good luck. 

Of all the alien interruptions, this was the perhaps the best sort.

**1987\. London, England. Tottenham Court Road McDonald’s.**

The air is hot and greasy, little beads of sweat gathering at her temples and under the rim of her visor, but she hardly has the time to wipe it away, let alone get a real breath of fresh air. There’s a mad line today, nearly out the door, and she’s put out more fires—of both the literal and figurative kind—than she usually does in an entire weekend. 

Usually she’s the one _starting_ the fires.

“Weird day we’re having,” one of the boys at the fryer mumbles, and she can’t help but agree. It only gets weirder when a pair of blondes crop up in her line—two women, one of whom looks quite hacked off. They’re bickering when they finally make it to her register.

“Fast food is _not_ a date,” the frowning girl says, her arms crossing her chest. “Y’know, I’m beginning to think you don’t _actually_ know what a date is. Last time, we went to prison!”

Behind the counter, Ace McShane grins. It’s an odd thought—the two of them, in prison. They look awfully clean about the nose for that sort of thing. “I dunno,” she pipes up. “Sounds like a pretty good date to me.”

The angry blonde notices her for the first time, and her mouth twists from a grimace into a rueful smile. “I was in a _ball gown._ ”

Ace pretends that is somehow a clarifying piece of information. “Ah.”

“And you looked beautiful!” The other woman hastily adds, burrowing her hands deep into her trench coat pocket and rocking back on her heels. When she catches Ace’s eye, she immediately looks away. It’s odd; she looks _nervous._ Who looks nervous to order a burger?

“So, what can I get you?” Ace asks.

She can all but hear her manager yelling about “professionalism” and “brand cohesion” and a bunch of other bollocks, but she’s caught off guard by the couple and doesn’t follow the usual script.

“Yeah, Doctor,” the first woman prompts, nudging her date in the ribs with a tiny grin. “What’re we having? Big Mac for two? Share a shake?”

“You know what!” The woman—apparently some sort of Doctor—declares, too loudly. The folks in line behind her, who are already beginning to shift their weight impatiently, are glaring. “You’re _right_ , Rose! This isn’t a proper date at all! We should leave! We should leave,” and she grabs the other woman by the arm, dragging her out of line, “ _right now._ ”

“Doctor, _what_ —”

“No time for questions, love! We’ve gotta run! And Ace—er, Dorothy—that is, Miss McDonald’s Employee, thanks so much for your stellar service, yeah? Brilliant. Great work.” She says all of this while backing toward the door, body moving almost as fast as her mouth. The woman with her follows her lead, looking miffed but not entirely surprised. “I’d say this isn’t the job for you, though. Maybe something a bit more… active. Exciting. I’d even say explosive! Though not—not _too_ explosive—”

“Doctor…”

“Right. Well. You’re—you’re brilliant, alright? Never stop being—”

And that’s all there’s time for, before the woman and her partner are out the door.

They’re just turning, heading away, when Ace realizes—

She isn’t wearing her nametag. Lost it in the wash, again.

“Hey!” she shouts. “How do you know my name?” But there’s no answer; she can’t see them anymore.

Ace is off like a flash, vaulting over the McDonald’s counter, sneakers squeaking against the sticky linoleum. “Doctor!” she cries on instinct. Her heart pounds as she pushes through the line—“Sorry, sorry!”—and out the door, into the heavy summer crowd. Fresh air hits her like a wind, carrying smells other than sweat and salt. Sure, there’s petrol and people, but there’s also cigarette ash and spicy curry. The scents of London. She takes a deep breath, and jumps up on her toes.

Where _are_ they?

She’s seen some weird shit in her life. Enough to make her suspicious of characters like this nameless “Doctor,” and pretty girls who talk about going to prison. It’s perfectly reasonable to want to ask follow-up questions. But as she scans the pavement for the flash of two blonde heads, or the shoulders of a dove grey trench, she comes up empty—nothing.

They’ve disappeared.

Whoever they are, they’re gone. Lost in the mass of Londoners.

But they’d _known_ her. Or, at least, the Doctor had.

And it had felt good, for a moment, to be known. Not to be a mystery, or a problem, or an employee. To be herself only, and to be known.

Even by a mad person who had been to prison. Or maybe, she thinks with a grin, _especially_ by a mad person who had been to prison.

She turns back and walks—properly this time—through the doorway and back into the muggy misery of McDonalds. She thinks it’s probably time she quits this place and does something else. 

Something exciting.

**1929\. Hampshire, England. Highclere Castle.**

This tour is boring.

And not because every castle in the entirety of Hampshire _might as well_ be the same. Or, not _just_ because.

No, it’s boring, because the housekeeper is boring, and appears to know only boring things about the castle. And what’s more, her party is boring! And everything _they_ talk about—linens, and the size of the drawing room, and the cost of the new glazing on the windows—is decidedly boring. And—

—and all right, perhaps it’s just that she’s seen every bloody castle, abbey, and cathedral in all of Hampshire, and for all she cares, they might as well be the same. The grounds are probably the most interesting part, and she’s not even _permitted_ to wander them, because the ladies have all decided it’s _far_ too sunny out, and walking in such weather would be _far_ too fatiguing.

Charley disagrees. The only thing fatiguing is the endless monotone of the self-important housekeeper and the cramped, dark, _dull_ rooms she’s been forced to wander for what feels like hours.

She sidles up alongside her mother, nearly at the end of her patience. “Mother,” she whispers, sliding her hand under her mother’s arm, “I’m feeling a bit ill. I believe I need some fresh air.” The words are offered with a pleading look, though it looks more than a little like a grimace, and the older woman relents with a small sigh.

“Very well,” she whispers back, frowning. “Don’t go far. And for heaven’s sake, Charlotte, don’t do anything to muss your clothes. We’re having tea after this.”

“Yes, Mother,” she answers obediently, already turning for the doorway and the blessed relief of _freedom._

She’s running before she’s even through the threshold.

It feels good to run, despite the chafe of her girdle. She tries to step softly, so her heels don’t make a noise against the wood and stone, but by the time she reaches the main doors, her feet are pounding, as is her heart—and finally, she is released out onto the grass. She takes a deep breath, and sighs it out, taking in the blue sky overhead. What a _waste_ of a day, spending it indoors!

She stands still for a long moment, just appreciating the quiet. There is no droll hum of the housekeeper, no tittering ladies. Just the distant sound of a mower on the breeze. The horizon stretches out in front of her, and for a little while, she pretends that there is some mystery that lies beyond it, something she is chasing to the ends of the earth. She can envision herself a great explorer, seeking adventure beyond the rolling green hills of Hampshire. A captain of a ship, searching for treasure. For adventure.

Someday, she decides, she will find it.

Someday.

Once she has caught her breath—quite a feat in her current state of dress—she determines to walk the perimeter of the castle and take in whatever scenery she can find. It’s not technically going “far” in any sense of the word, and anyway, it’ll be some exercise before she’s forced to venture back inside. She shudders at the very thought, setting out along the gravel path.

It is as she turns to walk along the west side of the castle that she sees it: a blue box, squarely set down in the middle of the green. Big enough for a person, with bright white letters declaring it a Police Public Call Box. It’s perhaps one of the _odder_ lawn ornaments she’s seen in her life, but then, she’s really no judge of taste. 

There is nothing around it, lending it a sense of being larger than it is, almost shooting upright from the ground like a pillar of stone. She’s very nearly determined to go and see it when the doors swing open, and two women—two very _entangled_ women—tumble out. Their manner of dress is _quite_ strange, but that’s not what catches Charley’s eye.

It’s the way they’re holding each other as they come careening out of the double doors. Hands clasped about the neck, fingers pressed into hips.

They both laugh and look up in wonder, and Charley hurries around the corner again, into the safety of shadow where she can observe the strange women. They appear… almost surprised by their surroundings. As if they could not possibly understand how they ended up in such a place. Though they come from inside a little stationary box, they look as if they’ve fallen from the sky. Their study, if such giddy glances can really be such a thing, lasts only a moment before they resume giggling, and the taller woman—though it’s a _very_ slight difference—presses the smaller against the two doors. Her arms form a frame, in which the other woman squirms and smiles.

The space between their bodies is scant, and for some unfathomable reason, Charley feels a twinge under her ribs: something between horror and keen appreciation. It only spreads and strengthens as their faces lean closer, both pulled by some sort of unstoppable force.

She knows they couldn’t _possibly_ —

But they are. They do. Their lips meet in a kiss as light and fragile as their laughter, bubbling along the lawn. Her own mouth falls open, in shock or in sympathy. She finds herself taken aback for a moment, though she can’t say why. They’re like any other couple in love, aren’t they?

Perhaps, if she really examines her innermost feelings, she admires their boldness. They don’t seem to fear discovery; there is nothing furtive in their movements. They just stand in the sunlight and hold one another.

While she hides in shadow.

Some explorer she would make.

With a final kiss—this one short and bright and punctuated by some words that she can’t quite make out—the women disentangle themselves and begin to walk, hand in hand, across the green and away from the castle. It holds as little interest to them as it apparently does to Charley; they barely spare it a glance before heading in the direction of the road. As their figures grow smaller, their arms swinging loosely between them, she finds herself squinting for one last glimpse—one last gasp of the refreshing air they’d unintentionally brought with them, out of that strange blue box. That sense of freedom. She stares after them hungrily.

She has harbored her own wild thoughts for so long—dreams of escape, of putting on men’s trousers, burning all of her bloody girdles, and walking into the world without constraint or concerns for decency. She has thought long and hard about running away, and maybe—if she’s _very_ lucky—finding someone who will love her the way those two appear to love each other. Without condition or demand. Perhaps that someone will have soft lips and small hands, and be more like herself than she’d previously thought possible. Perhaps they will run _together._

She steps out of the shadow and into the sunlight.


	32. Pretty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Goingtothetardis  
> Prompt: "I just read your divine 'Touch' fic and find I am still craving more. I was wondering if you'd be interested in writing Rose interrupting the Doctor while he's reading/tinkering/lounging. Or is Rose an artist? Who decides to draw a lounging Nine? And gets all hot and bothered? I mean, the ideas are endless. 😁 Curious minds need to know. For research and science, etc etc."  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose
> 
> note: this chapter contains mature content! while i would argue that reading fic is never technically safe for work, this one is even less so than usual.

The doors are open, but there is no breeze—no air at all coming from outside the TARDIS. Only the void of space, and the dull golden glow. She likes to sit like this, sometimes, right here at the threshold, with her bare feet hanging over the edge. She likes knowing that the TARDIS would catch her, protect her, if she fell—even while the adrenaline races through her body like liquid lightning. Her human body isn’t made for these sorts of heights, but she can see more clearly this way: every pinprick star, every slow-swirling shape of a nearby nebula. They are all the more vibrant for being viewed through dilated eyes, with her heart thrumming eagerly in her chest.

But right now, Rose is not looking at the nebula dancing just outside her door. She is hunched over a scrap of brown paper—a folded-over shopping bag from some alien market; she can’t remember where—and pressing a nub of butter yellow pastel to paper, smudging it with her fingers. Tucked in the nest of her jacket so not to fall through the grating, the rest of the rainbow lies largely untouched. Only the faintest hints of orange, and as many shades of warm yellow light as she can manage, have made it to paper. But even with a whole host of impossible pigments at her disposal, it’s beyond her to capture the scale, the depth of the colors, the ethereal light that emanates from within the heart of the nebula.

She sighs and sets aside her pastels. No matter how hard she practices, Rose just _cannot_ capture landscapes. It’s more than just the _massiveness_ of space that eludes her; the minute details in a field of flowers and the perfect shade of blue to depict the TARDIS are completely beyond her. Sketching physical spaces make her feel lost, unfocused. She’s much better with faces. With bodies.

Flipping her scrap of paper over and shifting away from the open doors, she turns her attention to a much easier—and much more familiar—subject: the Doctor, sprawled across the TARDIS grating, with his sonic screwdriver tucked behind one sizable ear and a mess of disassembled fiddly bits all around. There is an open panel beside him, ready for him to crawl down should he need to. No doubt he’s window-shopping for TARDIS parts, though she can’t read any of the text to prove her theory—it’s in some alien language she can’t decipher. 

As she puts down her initial sketches, just lines and curves in charcoal, the Doctor alternates between reclining on his side, propped up on one arm, and lying fully on his back with his head under the console, one knee bent, as he searches out a particular part. Regardless of what holds his attention or how he’s lounging, he looks relaxed—easy among the disarray.

It’s fascinating, actually, the way he moves. Or Rose finds it to be. For someone with such a capacity for intensity, he mostly navigates his body like a drunken marionette on slack strings, limbs rolling loosely. Perhaps it’s the sheer _length_ of him that gives the appearance of perpetual loping. He has long arms and legs and fingers, agile and clever; his body stretches halfway across the console room—rendering it necessary for Jack to step over his legs as he rounds the rotor, avoiding the open grate.

Jack spots Rose and the open TARDIS doors immediately, his eyebrows jumping. “Whatcha workin’ on, Rosie?” She flinches on instinct, hand dropping to cover the beginning sketches of the Doctor’s body, suddenly painfully aware of the attention she’d given his shoulders and the care with which she’d been tracing his hands.

“Nothing,” she shoots back, offering their newest crew member her best cheeky grin. “Just a bit of sketching.”

Jack knows about her—her _whatever it is_ —with the Doctor, of course. He’d spotted it from a mile away, right when he first met them, and then he’d done everything within his substantial power to tease the truth out of her. It had taken a shot of hypervodka and a PMS-induced crying jag for her to tell him everything—about the Dalek, and about realizing how much that mad alien meant to her while she was pressed up against that door thinking she would die. About wishing for nothing but to see his face again, smiling down at her with that silly grin. To be held again, even just one more time. She’d cried over the memory, and over the fact that _months_ had passed and _nothing_ had changed. They were, she’d admitted, stuck in a gridlock, where the both of them pretended that nothing was different, that their relationship hadn’t evolved at all.

She’d made a complete fool of herself that night, and she and Jack both knew it. He’d cleaned her up, of course, and commiserated about unrequited love. He’d even promised not to tell the Doctor—he _was_ bigger on the inside; bigger than she or the Doctor even knew—but when morning came, he kept her secret with about the bare minimum of subtlety.

“Oh?” He smirks at her as he steps closer. “What are we sketching today? Perhaps that beautiful bit of scenery?” Jack could _plausibly_ be talking about the nebula which still glows, warm and golden, just outside the TARDIS doors. But the way his mouth twitches, the way his eyes dart to the Doctor and back again, makes her think he isn’t. 

She shakes her head, fighting down a blush. “Something like that.”

The Doctor, who has finally taken notice of their conversation, shoots her a lopsided grin, tossing aside his catalogue. “Let’s see it, then! Mind you, we haven’t had an artist on board since… _oh,_ since the eighteen hundreds?”

“And I suppose it was… I dunno, Leonardo Da Vinci or something?”

“Couple hundred years off,” he answers with a chuckle, “but more or less. Nobody impressive.” He rolls up into a seated position, his arm hooking casually around his bent knee. With a little grin, he adds, “Nothing like a Rose Tyler Original.” 

She wonders how he makes it all look so easy, especially when she feels like a clumsy ape half the time. He looks as comfortable as a king in repose. And the way he looks at her, with keen interest like she’s about to present him with the Mona Lisa, makes her want to throw her sloppy sketch right out of the airlock. If they even have an airlock. But she gives her paper over to Jack when he opens his palm, and she tries not to chew her lip to pieces.

“It’s just a sketch, like I said. A gesture drawing, really—it’s about—”

“—capturing the motion or the pose of the body,” the Doctor says. “I know.” Of course he does. The Doctor knows about everything. He could probably teach a _class_ on gesture drawing.

“ _Well_ ,” Jack says emphatically, “it certainly accomplishes _that_.” He holds the brown paper about a foot away from his face, gazing at it with a sort of faux-thoughtful expression. He appears for all the world like a serious art critic standing in a museum, down to the way he strokes his chin and squints. “You’ve really… captured the Doctor’s body, Rose.” It’s impossible to miss the way he lingers on the word _body_ , and all hope of stopping her blush is lost.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

The Doctor, on the other hand, bursts into a beaming smile. “You drew _me?_ ” He sounds pleasantly surprised, though she can’t think why. She’s sketched him before—made studies of his hands, the shape of his nose— _loads_ of times. She’s got at least five charcoal sketches of him flapping his wings like a chicken, fussing at the console. And many more on variations of his precise pose. Lounging. Reclining. Whatever it is.

Surely she’s shown him something, or he’s at least _noticed_ her staring at him with an obsessive intensity?

Rose frowns. “Yeah? I draw you all the time—both of you!” She glances back and forth between him and Jack, confused. “I don’t get many chances to just… sit down and sketch someone, you know? Not on the TARDIS, anyway, so my sketchbooks are full of you!” Well, full of one more than the other, but she doesn’t say it.

She’s so busy staring at them in turns that she almost misses the slight droop in the Doctor’s smile. Almost.

Jack, still staring at the sketch, tilts his head. “You’ve really got his proportions down, Rosie. I mean, those _shoulders_ —scrumptious!” He licks his lips salaciously, and Rose rolls her eyes, standing up to snatch it from his hand.

“That’s enough,” she chides, getting ready to stuff the sketch in her back pocket where it belongs—where nobody can see it. But the Doctor, still on the floor, reaches up and snatches it up out of her hands, mid-stuffing.

“Hey now! Don’t I get a look?”

She’s already spinning, ready to reach for it, but he rolls back and all but falls into the open grating, deftly avoiding her hands. Cradling his head with one hand, he holds up her sketch with the other, squinting at it. He turns the scrunched up paper this way and that, and her mortification is reaching a boiling point when he finally says, “And this is me?”

Rose blinks. She feels something like raw shock—like the floor’s just dropped from under her. Is it really _that bad?_ “Yeah.”

“Hm.” His brows are furrowed, like he’s confused. She doesn’t know how he possibly could be: she’s drawn him hundreds of times; his face and his shape are second nature to her. Rose imagines she could draw him blindfolded, in ink or blood, charcoal or dust. But he can’t tell?

He can’t see it?

Mortified, she stutters out an excuse. “I mean, it’s a bit rubbish—”

“C’mon, Doc!” Jack interrupts, crouching by the Doctor’s hidey-hole. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it. I mean, she’s got the jaw for starters. And the nose—you can’t miss that.”

The Doctor glares at him. “I suppose—”

“But it’s not just that, you know? She’s got the way you hold yourself down to a tee.” Jack’s glance flicks up to her for a moment—just long enough to send her a reassuring wink. Or, at least, she _thinks_ it’s supposed to be reassuring. “Proportions are good, too.”

“I know,” the Doctor snaps, pulling the sketch away from Jack’s probing finger. He holds it against his chest as if protecting it, and it stirs something strange in Rose’s chest. Something she knows the name of but refuses to identify. “I _do_ have eyes, Jack. Technically speaking, it's a good sketch.”

“Doctor,” she tries, her voice coming out weak, “it’s fine, you don't—"

"I just don't think it looks like me, that's all."

Rose and Jack look back at him with twin expressions of shock. But the Doctor's gaze slides to her, and she tries to flatten her feelings away, put up some sort of defence. "I _mean_ ," he clarifies, "it's a bit _pretty_."

"Pretty?" Rose gapes.

"And that's a _bad_ thing?" Jack looks even more confused than before. But of course, he's missing a crucial piece of the conversation. He's missing all the times that the Doctor has tweaked himself about his looks—his ears, his nose, his goofy smile, his wrinkled brow and unforgiving buzzcut. All the things Rose loves. And all the insecurities to which Jack isn't party, either because he hasn’t been around long enough yet, or because the Doctor presents such a strong front.

"Alright," Rose says quietly. She gestures for the Doctor to return her sketch, and he does—though reluctantly, she can't help but notice. "I'll do another one. Less pretty this time. You can watch me. Jack?" She turns her gaze up to the Captain, his perfect jaw still dropped in confusion. "Could you run to the junk room and get me an extra torch? I'll need good lighting."

She holds his gaze for a long moment, hoping—willing him to understand. And after a second of seeming thought, he nods and marches off. 

Hopefully not in the direction of the junk room.

The Doctor watches his departure with a narrow, suspicious glance. She’s tempted to sketch _that_ face—another expression she’s so intimately familiar with—but instead, she gets up on her knees and crawls over to the hole in the grating, shoving aside the bits and bobs that litter the place. He’s still got one arm behind his head, and the other reaches up behind his ear to grasp his sonic screwdriver. Typical. He can’t go ten seconds without tinkering.

But he freezes mid-motion. “Do I… need to hold still?”

Rose bites down a smile. “No, just lie comfortably. This isn’t a portrait—just a quick sketch again.” She sets to work immediately, crossing her legs beneath her and unfolding the brown bag in search of a fresh patch of paper. There’s some red ink printed in a vague, blobby shape—some sort of logo—but she can draw over it easily enough. She’s already working out the shape of his head at this angle. The way his chin juts out as he looks up over the top of his head and into the machinery. The way the green light shrouds part of his face in shadow, but glowing in a halo around his prominent ears. The sonic casts a different sort of light, blue and radiant, washing his extended neck in pale shades. 

She tries to capture it all with her nub of charcoal.

“D’you mind if I talk myself through it?” she asks after a moment, glancing up at him. His hand is still frozen in place, as though he can’t decide what to do with it.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Whatever you like. D’you mind if I keep working?”

“Whatever you like,” she parrots, turning back to her sketch. And he fiddles with the sonic, no doubt doing something incomprehensible. A few more moments pass in silence before she gets up the courage to start speaking again. “So, I’m working on your face, yeah? And there’s a lot going on here. You’ve got… sort of _prominent_ features, obviously, but that’s not what makes it complicated. I could draw Roman noses all day long.”

She glances up, and his lips are twitching. _Good._

“My real sticking point is the eyes. Obviously, a sketch like this isn’t meant to capture your eyes in any amount of detail, but they’re just so _pretty,_ y’know?” It’s freeing, in a way, to finally give voice to these things—the thoughts that haunt her every time she looks at the man she’d run away with. Even under such a pretext as this, it relieves some of the pressure. Telling the truth. “Blue eyes, I mean,” she clarifies, carefully watching him through her eyelashes. His only reaction is to glance at her, and then slow-blink the blank expression away.

“And they’re so expressive: windows to the soul and all that. So, if I want to get your face right—your expression, the tension in your forehead, all of that—I need to start with the eyes. But, of course, they’re _pretty._ Should I leave them out?” It’s a rhetorical question; she smiles at the way he rolls his eyes. “So, then we get to the neck, the shoulders. Jack was right, there—you’ve got good shoulders. Solid, nice and wide. Or maybe that jacket’s just doing you favors.”

He whips it off before she can blink, sitting upright and then settling back again, his mouth twisted into a scowl. The jacket hangs beside her leg, and she’s tempted to reach down and stroke the buttery leather. She could laugh at his display of vanity, but it would hardly be fair. That’s the dichotomy of the Doctor, she supposes. Or one of many—his need to be admired is nearly equal to his self-loathing.

And it _is_ so much nicer to see the cling of the knit. He’s wearing a sapphire sweater today, the v-neck gives her an unobstructed view of the tendons in his neck. They strain and shift as he tilts his head back nonchalantly—though maybe it only _looks_ like he’s nonchalant. 

“That’s better, thanks,” she says absently, sketching in his shoulders. She roughs in the lines of his arm, curled behind his head, trying to capture the flex. “I’m getting your arms down now, but muscle definition is hard to capture in just a sketch. I’ll have to go more in-depth next time and skip them for today.” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and releases it again. “Pity.”

He’s on to her now, probably—if his sudden stare is any indication. But it’s still unreadable. His eyes—those pretty blue eyes—are wide open, and burning with that same intensity that always makes her stomach swoop when he turns it on her.

“Your hands, though. I can definitely get the detail in those. Short nails, long fingers, smooth skin. Very clever, obviously. Mobile. You could almost say they’re… _pretty_.”

He blinks again, and she swallows, ducking her head. She’s determined to continue, no matter how much she wants to hide from him.

“I can get your torso pretty well by now. You’ve got clothes on, so it’s not like there’s much detail to be had, except for a few—yes, a few lines of the fabric.” She sketches in the creases, and the way his hemline rides up. It’s less than an inch, but the scrap of skin makes her itch to touch him. She makes sure to include it. He’ll likely think it another imperfection, but she knows better.

“Belt. Fly. More clothes. So dull.” When she gets to his legs, she tilts her head. “Now, here’s something interesting again. You have this way of holding yourself… sort of sprawling? Or is it reclining? It’s very casual, but sort of… seething with this internal intensity.” She almost snorts at her own description. Of course it is. He’s probably the most repressed creature in several galaxies. He glances up with an arched brow. “Very interesting to draw. And the lifted knee provides a bit of a perspective challenge. But don’t worry—I’ve got the… what was it? _Technical_ ability?”

“Now, Rose—”

She sticks out her tongue. “Oh, hush. I’m just having you on. Anyway, if I get the angles right—that leaning, lying, sprawling thing you do… it’ll come through properly.” Her tongue catches between her teeth as she concentrates on the final lines, smudging them a bit with her fingertips and casting his body in light and shadow. It’s a rough sketch, but it gets the point across.

It feels like _him._

“Alright,” she pronounces. “Finished. Wanna see?”

He sits up again, carelessly abandoning his work; the bare wires dangle, disconnected and ready to spark. She scoots even closer—so close that her feet start to fall into the open space above him. Catching herself, she reaches over and hands him the sketch with a grin that’s cheekier than she actually feels. 

Inside, she feels raw: as if _she’s_ about to be exposed by the strokes of black that make up his body. 

“What d’you think?” she asks nervously.

He looks up at her. And then back at the drawing. And then at her again. “And that’s me.”

“Blimey, Doctor,” she huffs, “it’s like you’ve never looked in a mirror!” Her irritation covers the hurt, though perhaps not well, based on the way his eyes go wide.

“I try not to,” he replies, frowning. “But it’s… it’s very good.”

Rose feels her spine stiffen. Not at his halfhearted compliment—she’s used to the Doctor and his caveats by now. _For a human_ comes to mind. But at the way he expresses his own self-loathing— _I try not to_ —a vague dawning horror takes over her, and she’s moving before she can think better of it. Her only thought is to get close. 

Sliding down into the hole in the grating, her arms curl protectively around him in a heavy hug. She’s practically lying on top of him, her knees scrunched on either side of his waist, but she doesn’t care about the indignity of the position. She instead focuses on physically conveying to him what her drawing obviously couldn’t.

_I love you how you are._

_The body you wear is worthy of that love._

_And dammit, I think you’re… pretty._

She slows her breathing, suddenly aware of the way her breasts are pressed against his chest, aware of his stomach going concave with an exhalation as she breathes deep. Every point of contact makes it _more_ than just a hug. It is the resolution of the need that’s been building up in her body for months now, fed on desperate snatches of touch—holding hands, a nudge with an elbow, an all-too-fleeting hug. Rose flushes red all over, vibrant as one of her pastels, and pulls back. Just far enough to see his face, and to wonder what he’s thinking.

The Doctor looks shocked, for lack of a better word. His jaw is slack, his lips parted. His blue eyes are wide, framed by long lashes and two heightened brows. She could draw it—call it Doctor Disoriented. But she only has her hands, and they are planted on either side of his head, with little wires digging into her palms.

He swallows, and her eyes are drawn to the way his throat subtly bobs.

Details. The Doctor’s beauty lies in the details, and he doesn’t even know.

“I don’t just draw you ‘cause I have to,” she says, so softly that the words probably don’t even carry beyond the Doctor’s ears. They’re right in the middle of the console room, of course, but the wilderness of alien machinery under the grating almost makes it feel… cozy. Safe. Isolated in their own little world, out of sight. And when he hears her words, his chest stutters with a sharp breath. She feels it press against hers, and the contact aches. She looks down at him seriously. “You _know_ I don’t.” 

And then she lets her head fall back down, to the curve of his shoulder. She hugs him so tightly that her heart might burst.

A long second passes. And then she feels his arms wrap—so slowly, so gently—around her.

In time, their breathing syncs. Rose somehow feels both drowsily comforted and intensely aware: of his body beneath her, and the subtle pressure of his hands at her hips. Of their place in the TARDIS. Of her clothes against her skin. The conflicting sensations gather inside her until it’s hard to keep still. The comfort is outweighed by the burning need to _do something._ To make friction, a spark. 

It takes all of her energy not to wriggle against him, and it’s a divine act of willpower that pulls her off of his chest, propped on her arms.

She chews her lip, looking down at him again. She hasn’t the first clue how to disentangle herself from him, how to go back from this. It’s the closest she’s ever gotten to admitting her feelings outright—and her body is saying more than her words, no doubt. 

She wants to tell him outright, every single thought in her head, but the prospect of his rejection _hurts._ If the stinging she’d felt when he criticized her drawing was the least of it, then it would only be more agonizing to say more, to risk a fissure forming in her heart. So, she breathes, and tries to think of something to say. Something that will diffuse the bomb growing in her body—a growing, tightening ball of _want._

When he reaches up and presses his thumb to her bottom lip, dragging it out from between her teeth, her mind goes suddenly and alarmingly blank. It’s like a flash-bulb going off; one moment, the world exists and the next, it doesn’t. There’s only the salt hint of his fingertip, and the low heat that drops into her gut. Her legs tighten around his waist—an instinct. Automatic. She doesn’t even have time to blush.

His hand cradles her cheek as his thumb swipes over her lip, and then her jaw. Even as the gentle touch rockets through her, he says, “You’re mad, Rose Tyler. I am older and uglier than you know.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The gap between them is closing again, and with it, Rose feels her sense of awareness further narrowing. To the heat of his breath, and the blue of his eyes. She’s never been _this close_ to his face before. Close enough to breathe the same air—yes. But never like this. Close enough, almost, to touch his lips with hers.

“It will, someday.”

“It won’t.” She sounds stubborn. Petulant, even. And his lips hitch on one side, as if he knows a great secret that he’s content to let her figure out for herself. She frowns. “You don’t scare me.”

And the Doctor replies, “Good.”

Slowly, so as to give her time—an out, not that she’d ever take it—he lifts his head to kiss her. 

The Doctor’s nose nudges and bumps her cheek, a gentle nuzzle that she feels all over, and she’s smiling when their mouths finally meet. 

And then, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, she’s kissing the Doctor.

His lips are soft and full and distracting, and of course, irritatingly clever. It makes her head dizzy: his gentle force, and his thumb rubbing rhythmically over her jaw. She’s embarrassed by how quickly she responds, her body flattening against his to touch every possible inch, her fingers raking over his head. And it’s not long before she loses a sense of time altogether, lost in the varying pressure of his mouth and the dull, disbelieving throb that rebounds through her: _This is really, actually happening._

In her squirming to get closer, her own shirt rides up, and she can feel the cool sliver of his stomach against hers. It makes her feel scorching—a sensation she hadn’t really imagined before now—like his comparative coolness only burns her hotter. She wants to slide her fingers under the fabric, stroke burning lines against his cool skin. But she can’t let go of him, or stop from sliding her fingers through his cropped hair. She can’t stop _kissing_ him.

She lets out a shivery whine when her tongue finally darts out to taste him—because the Doctor tastes like strong tea, and time, and everything she’s ever wanted. And the tightening pressure of his other hand kneading her hips is distractingly heavenly. She rocks against him, some base instinct in her searching for more pressure, more relief. 

The Doctor grunts, low in his throat.

“Oh.” Her mouth pops open, and her eyes fly open, too—ready to apologize, ready to stop. But he doesn’t stop. In fact, he seems unaware of the noise he’d made, focused intensely on keeping his mouth attached to hers. He grips her tighter, one hand traveling into her hair and tangling, and she lets herself sink into him. Into his kiss. Their tongues tangle, taking advantage of her open mouth, and when she whimpers again, he leans into it, sucking her bottom lip into his teeth. He doesn’t have to say it for her to hear it: _If you_ must _bite your lips…_

Another time, she’ll probably want to ask him loads of questions. Like how he got so good at snogging, and what this means for them— _is everything different now?_ —and whether or not the Dalek had been telling the truth about him loving her. But for now, her mind is deliciously filled up with the feeling of him—the way he tugs her down and back, grinding her against his hips so that the seam of her denims rubs just right. His large palm cradling her hip, fingers inching the hem of her t-shirt ever higher, sending gooseflesh out over her exposed skin.

The scent of leather surrounds her like a perfume, heady and high. And she feels it growing in her stomach—the release she’s been chasing alone in her bedroom at night, the adrenaline that pumps through her every time she’s suspended at the edge of time and space itself. 

The danger. The fear of falling. The hope that she’ll fly.

She gasps as he lifts his hips, almost thrusting up against her. It sears into her nerve endings, an acute and exquisite pleasure. “Doctor,” she says—or breathes, into his open mouth.

It shouldn’t be this easy for him to read her body, to know what it wants. She’s certainly never come with all her clothes on before. But as he continues to press with that delicious friction, she feels as if he knows her body—better, even, than she knows the shape of his. Better than she knows herself.

Which is why it’s a matter of moments before she’s at the edge. She forces herself to give up their kiss, looking wildly down into his face. His jaw is clenched tight, as if he’s standing at the edge with her. Her voice is a cry. “Doctor, I—”

“Go ahead,” he pants out, his forehead pushing up to rest against hers. His voice is strained and adoring, and it makes her heart flutter up into her throat. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t know it was what she needed—that reassurance. But, safe in his arms, she falls.

Her channel pulses around nothing, shockwaves of sensation rolling through her whole body. As all the tension floods out of her limbs and muscles and she sags against him, he moves her hips for her, sustaining the sensation for as long as possible. His hands are a live wire against her. The aftershocks ripple outward in a wave, and she lets out a long, low groan that bounces around their little cave—out into the rest of the console room. She should be embarrassed, but she’s too sated to care, and the Doctor is _looking_ at her—like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in several lifetimes.

“Well,” comes a voice. “That certainly sounded satisfying.”

Rose rears back, eyes wide and chest heaving.

“Jack.” The Doctor grits out. There’s a vein popping in his forehead, his whole face is flushed red—and no wonder. She’s been grinding against him for so long, she wonders how he’s still holding on. But he simply kneads her hip and takes a deep breath. “You’ve got the worst timing in the world, mate.”

“Yes, well, it’s been an hour. I figured you two’d be done by now.”

She bites her lip to hold back a laugh, but seconds later, the Doctor’s thumb is tugging on it with that same, soft gentleness. He’s so tender with his touch that she can almost ignore the iron rod that’s pressing, unattended to, up against her. She wonders what would happen if she wiggled against him—

But she doesn’t. Because he’s still looking up at her with that strange, almost reverent look. She wants to kiss it off of his face, or sketch it—or both. It’s the prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

Rose smiles at him with her tongue slipping between her teeth, with a fond familiarity and newfound closeness. And the Doctor calls back to Jack in a low growl: “Not _nearly_ done.”


	33. Leaning into the diner and dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Lotsofthinkythoughts  
> Prompt: "Poet Twelve getting book cover headshots done, with Rose as the photographer (YOU KNOW THE PIC I HAVE IN MIND)"  
> Pairing: Twelve x Rose

He’d refused to meet in a studio. Too clinical—too hot under all those lights—too devoid of personality. Or those had been the excuses Jack offered. 

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that her workspace had enough character for an entire stage play. Mostly the rubbish kind of character, because it was just her curtainless, poorly-insulated studio flat with the Murphy bed flipped up and her secondhand sofa pushed against one wall. 

He’d arranged for them to meet at a random restaurant instead. One of the guy’s favorites, he’d told her. And because she was strapped for cash, and because she owed Jack a favor, Rose had said yes.

She was relieved to find the dingy 24-hour diner was at least in possession of some rather massive windows. They faced a drab, whitewashed wall belonging to the halal grocer next door, but it would do well enough for such a lo-fi photoshoot. 

“He’s got an old soul, Rose,” Jack had explained, sounding just a touch pleading. But Rose just rolled her eyes. “Old soul” didn’t have to mean “primitive.” 

While she waited for Jack and her subject to arrive, she scoped out the perfect place to sit. Her options were mostly open, with only a few patrons scattered around the diner. A pair of old ladies, and a lone bloke bent over his cup of coffee. 

Perhaps a booth would be quaint, with a slice of apple pie on the table? Plus, they’d benefit from being in the light without being backlit. She leaned up against the lacquered bar, ignoring the glare she got from the waiter and determinedly not ordering anything for a solid ten minutes. After fifteen, she heaved a sigh and set down her camera bag.

Of course he’d be late. Artist types were notoriously unreliable, in her experience. Poets especially.

Checking her watch for the third time, Rose flagged down the waiter. “Sorry, can I get a glass of water?” At the sound of her voice, one of the patrons turned in their booth—the thin, lanky bloke with curly hair and pinstriped suit, who looked older than he probably was. He examined her with an air of faint interest that made her wonder—

Slinging her bag back over her shoulder, Rose moved vaguely in the direction of his table. "Are you Ian?" 

But the man just frowned. "You're late."

"Right." Though she could see he wouldn't care for her excuses, she still felt compelled to give one. She was, after all, a professional.

An aspiring one, anyway. 

"I've actually been here almost twenty minutes. Didn't recognize you. But then," she added, along with a stiff smile, "Jack didn't really describe the back of your head."

His lips might've twitched, only he covered any sign with a sip of coffee.

"Where is he, anyway? I thought he'd be here by now…" She drifted off, glancing around the tiny diner for any sign of her friend. If Jack was there, maybe she'd stop with the nervous babbling.

At that, Ian—for Ian he certainly was—glanced up at her. "Where do you think?" he griped, and she suddenly realized he had an accent. "Probably hungover, or in a ditch somewhere. Or, more realistically, balls deep in somebody." His brogue was heavy, but his tone was dry as a bone, like he dished out sarcasm to strangers every day. 

"Of course," she sighed, sliding into the chair across from him. The server brought out her cup of water, which she gratefully sipped from. "That does cover a solid three quarters of potential options."

"What did I miss?" 

Rose grinned. "That he's all three."

He almost smiled that time, she was certain of it. She thought about pulling out her camera on the spot, because it seemed like quite a rare occasion.

He was an odd looking sort of person—handsome if you squinted, though his eyebrows gave him a stern quality that wiped away any softness. They sat like twin thunderclouds over pale blue eyes. He had a prominent nose, and lips that would persist in looking full, no matter how hard he pressed them together. And he wore a suit, but didn’t seem at home in it. He seemed more like the denim everything type.

He'd certainly make an interesting photograph, anyway: the broody poet with his black coffee.

But, of _course,_ he'd picked the most washed out seat in the house; she'd be lucky if his face came out as more than a gray blob. So she kept her camera where it was.

"I'm Rose," she said, reaching across the table to shake his hand. It felt awkward, but like the professional thing to do. She already felt painfully unprepared with her beat up camera bang and two hard-earned lenses.

"Ian." As if there was any doubt.

His palm was warm against hers, probably from the coffee. "Jack tells me you're a poet."

"He would say that," Ian replied, rolling his eyes. "He's paid to say it."

"But you wouldn't?"

The hand she'd just shaken rose to wipe over his face, grinding against the bridge of his nose. He looked fatigued, despite it being late morning. _Must be a night owl._ Rose thought it would certainly explain the grumpiness.

"Not 'til I can hold a copy in my own two hands, no."

She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant; she hadn't felt worthy of the title Photographer until she'd gotten paid for her first shoot. She'd done professional portraits for one of her mum's friends who was looking for a new job, and that twenty quid in her hand had felt like solid gold.

"Well," she said cheerfully, "I'm here to help that along, get you a portrait for that back cover. I was thinking we could just do a few shots—maybe in that booth over there?" She started to gesture at one of the open booths, but he shot her down immediately.

"What's wrong with this table?"

_Lots of things, actually._

But she didn't want to bore him with an explanation of backlighting and camera lenses. So, she determined to make do with his chosen table. 

"Nothing," she lied. "It's fine. Why this table?" 

He just looked incredulous and said, "It's where I sit." She wondered how exactly she was supposed to know that, having never been here _or_ met him before in her life. But she just pressed her lips together and reached under the table for her camera bag.

"Do you write here?" she asked conversationally.

He shrugged. "I write everywhere, when I can write at all." Listlessly, he reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. The two old ladies in their corner booth glared at him disapprovingly as he lit it, tendrils of sharp-smelling smoke rising in the air. Rose winced. "Smoking section," he croaked.

"Filthy habit," she shot back.

He just shrugged, the edge of his mouth curling. "I can't quit. I do so hate giving up."

She felt her own lips twitching, urging her to give into this odd man's bitter humor and irritating charm. But she focused her attention on more professional things—like attaching her portrait lens and looking down the viewfinder, framing him against those bloody bright windows. She fiddled with the exposure, and decided to hope for the best.

"Your chips, mate." The waiter appeared from nowhere—right as Rose's shutter clicked—depositing a large white plate full of hot chips right in the center of the table. Rose let her camera drop.

"Chips? For breakfast?" She tried not to feel a sense of kinship, but the truth was, she'd done it more than a few times. Normally after a night at the clubs.

Maybe _he_ was hungover.

He gave another half-shrug, reaching for a piping hot wedge of potato. "Is it technically breakfast if you haven't slept yet?"

"I suppose not," she laughed. "In that case, it's supper." 

She tried to get the shot right, but the chips and the cigarette and the mug were too much—cluttering up the whole shot. And he kept reaching for chips, obscuring his face with his hands. She sighed and slipped back into her seat, eyeing the plate, stacked high with her favorite food. "D'you mind if I wait 'til you're finished?"

"Sure," he answered, licking his thumb. Her eyes followed the motion, the way his tongue darted out to clean away a spare flake of salt. His jaw worked for a second—suppressed amusement, it looked like—before he gestured to the plate. "You can have a few, if you like."

Rose chewed her lip and forced her eyes away from his hands. "Nah." She tried to sound nonchalant, but her stomach gave her away with an abrupt, embarrassing gurgle.

He rolled his eyes at her, and then reached for another chip, which he dangled in her face. "C'mon, Rose, I'm offering." He didn't look away as he bit into the wedge, and her stomach twisted—possibly not just from hunger. He chewed, and swallowed, and said, "Don't make me eat supper alone."

She couldn't say no.

Rose reached for a chip, and when the salty-vinegary-flakey potato touched her tongue—

She maybe—possibly—moaned a bit.

And, like a sunrise, he cracked a smile.

So much for professionalism. Of _course_ that was what it took to light up that dour face.

"So," she began, trying to distract him from her positively orgasmic reaction to a plate of fried potato, "what's got you having supper at eleven in the morning on a Thursday?"

"Insomnia."

He didn’t sound bothered by the information. In fact, he sounded substantially less irritable than before. Chips did have that effect on people, in her experience. Or, at least, they had that effect on _her._

“God, you’re just a walking stereotype, aren’t you?” She gestured to the half-smoked cigarette, languishing in the ashtray, trying to resist the urge to put it out. “Broody poet who can’t kick his smoking habit and never sleeps? Coffee and chips for breakfast? You’re the very picture of a struggling artist.”

One of Ian’s dark brows arched as he bit into another chip. “And what about you? Second-hand bag and borrowed equipment. Showing up to a shoot hungry. If I’m struggling,” he said, eyes dragging over her in a way that made her shiver, “then you’re _starving_.”

“It’s London,” Rose replied with a shrug. “We’re all starving.” He didn’t disagree. 

For a few moments, they ate in comfortable silence. It shouldn’t have felt so natural, probably, to sit with a stranger and share a plate of chips. But there was something grounded about Ian that made her feel at home, even in the unfamiliar diner. Like a scent or sound that inspired nostalgia, but she couldn’t remember why or how she knew it. She watched his face—his furrowed brow and methodical chewing. “So, what do you write about?”

He rolled his eyes at her, perhaps used to fielding such questions. “I write about what I see, and what other people tell me, and what I know, and what I feel. Everything.” It was a vague sort of answer, but appropriate. He started to look pensive, leaning on both his elbows and staring into the plate of chips. “This collection—for this… book—is mostly about falling in love, and falling out of it again. And then falling in love with everyone.”

“Romantic poetry, then?” That was how Jack had made it sound.

He shook his head vehemently. “Not romance. Just love.”

She contemplated asking him the difference, but—in a way, she already knew. She could read it in his expression, and in the strange sense of affinity that she couldn’t help feeling the longer they sat together. “Just love,” she echoed. “The big kind, then.”

He nodded. “The revolutionary kind, hopefully.” His face opened for a moment—like parting clouds—and she felt as if she understood him perfectly.

Love was what kept her hungry in the city, taking side jobs and waking up at the crack of dawn to prowl the streets, looking for something to capture with her camera. It was the soaring sensation in her stomach when she finally got the shot. The feeling of having created. Like stealing a kiss, or being touched by someone who cares if you like it.

Love was her mum stopping by with cup noodles when she was sick and there was no one else around to take care of her, and Mickey loaning her his car so she could drive to distant shoots.

Love was, most probably, having a seat that was _yours_ in a run-down old diner.

It was maybe even sharing a plate of chips. 

If you squinted, love could be… all sorts of things. Beginnings and endings.

But Rose pushed that thought straight away, painfully aware that she was getting ahead of herself.

She’d always been prone to seeing more than there really was in people—more depth, more potential. It was what had driven her into Jimmy’s arms as a teenager, and she knew better than anyone that the affections of an artist could be fickle and fleeting. It would be silly to look at a virtual stranger and see a future laid out in front of her—a winding road, maybe, with lots of detours to stop and take in the scenery.

The mountain of potatoes was beginning to dwindle. And Ian was sort of looking at her with a curious expression that made her skin feel paper thin. “Well,” Rose muttered, “we should probably get to it.” And she shifted out of her seat, avoiding his gaze and reaching for her camera again. 

It felt light in her hands—really, she felt light all over.

He stared at her, still thoughtful, as she fiddled with the framing; this time, she made no attempt to cut out the clutter of the table. It added something, really. She couldn’t say what—only she didn’t hate the look of the cigarette resting between his fingers, or the mostly-empty plate of chips, or the pinched frown on his face. It spoke of something that needed to be unraveled, decoded.

Girls in bookshops would love it. She liked it, more than a bit. _Ridiculous._

Still, she made a token attempt at prodding him into decency. “You could put out the fag,” she coaxed, grinning over her camera. “Try to look a bit more approachable, you know? Like someone who might write romance poems...” He opened his mouth, as if to complain about her intentionally rubbish wording. But then he just tucked his chin, glowering at her. She fought back the giggle that rose in her chest. “Perfect.”

She snapped the photo.

And that, as she put it later, was their first date.


	34. Smiles, Bread, and Other Sources of Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Tardisinateapot  
> Prompt: "Ten (or Femme!Ten) works behind a grocery counter (deli, bakery, etc.), and crushes on Rose when she regularly comes to shop. Rose has a protective boyfriend who doesn't like the way Ten looks at her."  
> Pairing: Femme!Ten x Rose

The Girl was back again.

Di didn’t actually know her name. As far as she knew, the pretty blonde who came in once a week and paid cash was just ‘The Girl,’ a title which felt both deliciously mysterious and patently ridiculous. But the joy she felt every time they interacted was something she kept to herself, a harmless—but rather silly—secret.

Her crush was probably Di’s _best_ kept secret, actually. 

The rest of her co-workers—or the close ones, anyway—already knew about the part of her life when she’d been a bloke, and that she was working at the grocer while finishing her doctorate in a field that nobody could pronounce. They knew that she had exactly zero understanding of football, and her favorite task was decorating the birthday cakes, because she liked to remember people’s names and imagine them eating her words. She had a weird sense of humor, maybe, but was generally sociable and, on the whole, good at befriending people.

But when The Girl was around, she just clammed up.

The first time she saw her, she was barely able to fill the order— _a fresh baguette, please, and did they carry any fig jam?_ Asked with a cheerful sort of hopefulness. Like asking for bread at a bakery counter was almost too much to expect, too much of a delight to hope for. Di had gone so silent and stupid that she ended up silently thrusting the baguette at The Girl, and then sending her to what was, most likely, an entirely random and incorrect aisle.

The next time, she did better. "Aisle eight. Promise. I checked this time," she offered, with a self-deprecating grin, one hand raking through her messy hair—probably only making it _more_ messy. The Girl smiled back. 

And Di knew she was a goner.

It seemed to come so easily, that smile: like a sunrise slipping over the horizon at dawn, and just as bright. How could one little human contain that vibrancy, that much generosity of spirit, casting light wherever she went? Everyone in the shop seemed to lean toward her when she came in, like flowers stretching toward a lone ray of sunshine slicing through a lightless forest.

Or maybe Di was just smitten. 

They were perfect strangers, but every time The Girl stepped up to the counter with her sparkling smile—now with a hint of mischief, because they had a little shared joke: _Still in aisle eight? Or has the jam moved?_ —it ceased to matter. 

Di was a moth, and The Girl was a flame, and each time she came and bought her bread—always something crusty and fresh, something Di could almost _picture_ The Girl biting into—she felt herself circling closer. Closer to saying something. _Anything._

It didn't even have to be clever—she would've settled for _Hi, I'm Di, and I'm pretty sure you're the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen_ , as embarrassing as it might have been. Even one of her typically useless observations would’ve been welcome. Like, _Excuse me, why do you like fig jam so much? Is it the complex decadence of the sweet fruit, broken up by bitter seeds? Is it because you know that the Buddha sat under a fig tree to gain enlightenment, or that the Biblical Promised Land is said to be full of figs?_

 _Do you know that sometimes, I look at you_ — _smiling simply because I'm giving you bread_ — _and I think I understand what all those great men were looking for?_

Or maybe not that. 

Today was different, though. The Girl was back again, and there was something strained, almost frayed at the edges of her face. Her smile was forced.

"Hello," Di greeted, cursing her own lack of creativity. She shifted her weight awkwardly, plimsolls squeaking against the hardwood. "The usual today?"

The Girl nodded, a flare of sincere happiness stretching her cheeks. Di flushed. How could she be so _beautiful_ , smiling like that? How could it be directed at _her_?

 _Di, you useless lesbian,_ she berated herself, trying not to let her jaw go slack.

"Is my jam back in stock?" The Girl asked.

Di nodded. "I'm happy to say it is." And she was—happy, that is. She couldn’t help but be, with The Girl’s curious eyes looking up at her. She reached for one of the fresh rolls, still warm from the oven and resting cozily on their tray, and a little paper bag to put it in. "How many?"

"Just one," The Girl replied, standing up on her tiptoes to peer over the counter. “For my lunch.” Her pink-tipped fingers hovered over the glass, ready to catch herself. And The Girl’s chin barely made it over the curve; she really _was_ quite small. Or maybe it was just Di’s own lanky height that made the contrast so apparent. She’d probably be able to wrap her long arms around her twice. 

The image that suddenly leapt in front of her eyes—of pulling The Girl into a hug and tucking her nose into her hair—was so completely absorbing that Di nearly fumbled the roll in her hand, only just getting it into the bag. The Girl didn’t seem to notice, sniffing eagerly and briefly sighing at the scent of fresh bread before glancing up and offering one of those winning grins.

Was she mental, or was The Girl blushing now?

"And could I—I mean,” The Girl stuttered, “I'd like some scones, please."

Di grinned, one dark eyebrow arching over the frames of her glasses. “Trying something new today?”

The Girl chewed her lip, glancing anxiously over her shoulder. “No, they’re for my boyfriend.” When she turned back, her face was pinched and pale, but she still managed a smile. “Can’t stand ‘em, myself.”

“Me neither,” Di agreed. It wasn’t _technically_ the truth; she’d never actually thought of scones for more than one second, outside of putting them into bags for people. She did just that, moving on autopilot while her brain whittered away.

The Girl seemed so tense, and why did she keep glancing back? Was her boyfriend liable to get lost if left on his own? Di almost snorted at the thought. Following the path of her gaze, she looked out past the bakery section—and saw The Girl’s boyfriend. It was impossible to mistake him.

For starters, he was watching The Girl like a hawk. Not necessarily in a creepy way—just very, very intent. Jealous, like a dragon looking over a hoard. He wasn’t very tall or broad, or particularly anything at all. In fact, Di would’ve described him as “utterly forgettable,” had she given him more than a first glance. Certainly not even in the same _universe_ as The Girl and her ridiculously sparkling beauty. But dull-looking as he was, with his pasty skin and forgettable face, he seemed determined to stake his claim—even from across the shop—crossing his arms and shooting a scowl their way. Was he _actually_ directing that look at her?

Di couldn’t imagine why.

She looked back at The Girl, who was beginning to look seriously uncomfortable, furrowing her brow when she looked back at her boyfriend.

And Di struggled for the right thing to say. Something friendly, but also something suggesting that The Girl could do far better than Painfully Average Adam, or whoever he was.

But The Girl beat her to it, turning her shoulder firmly away from her glaring companion. “I like your specs,” she blurted out, forcing a quavering smile. “They’re… classy.”

“Oh!” Di blinked, shell-shocked. “Thanks.” She was honestly grateful she got those two syllables out, what with her heart climbing her throat like it was Mount bloody Everest.

“And they, er—they really suit your face. The cat-eye.” The Girl rocked on her feet and then added, “I’ve been meaning to say for weeks, but I didn’t—”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you. Really.” She beamed, pushing her black-framed glasses back up her nose. _She likes my glasses. She thinks I’m classy._ Those incomprehensible facts rebounded around her mind, and it took all of Di’s substantial brain power to tamp her smile to a not-mad-looking level.

“It’s just… I work at Henrik’s,” The Girl said, and it almost sounded like she was building up to a babble. “Not the eyewear department, but I—”

“Rose!” The voice echoed, too loud, across the space between the grocery proper and Di’s counter.

The Girl— _Rose,_ Di realized—turned to face her boyfriend, who was tapping his watch and looking irritated. But she hardly noticed him, because… _Rose._ Di felt a bit lightheaded at the sudden rush of knowing that came over her. 

Of _course_ The Girl would be named for a flower. She _bloomed._

“Sorry,” Rose mumbled, turning back to the counter. “How much do I owe you?”

Di answered instinctually. “Nothing. I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. If you’re in a hurry—”

“I wouldn’t want you to get—”

“I’ll be fine,” Di chuckled, waving her arm vaguely. “Go get your _boyfriend._ ” She wrinkled her nose around the word, and The Girl— _Rose,_ she reminded herself giddily—pressed her lips together, unable to entirely suppress a laugh of her own. But then she sighed, looking longsuffering.

“Right. Should do that.”

“Probably, yeah.” She pushed the bag across the counter, the scent of blueberry scones wafting behind them. Now that she thought of it, they _were_ awfully sweet-smelling, for things that tasted like sawdust. How rude of that boyfriend, to ruin Rose’s perfectly good rolls with his too-sweet scones.

Rose’s smile—a real one—flashed at her. “Thanks, er—what’s your name?”

“Di.”

“Di,” Rose repeated. She tried not to shiver at the way her name sounded. “Cool. I’ll see you later, then.” Di just grinned and made another little swatting motion, hurrying her away from the counter. Rose giggled, the tip of her tongue peeking between her teeth. It was the loveliest sound in the world, and Di tried not to stare. But she couldn’t quite help it.

She watched as Rose rejoined her boyfriend—who shot a parting glare her way. Seriously, _what_ was this guy’s problem?—and made for the door. They were just out of her sight when—

_Aisle eight._

_She forgot her jam!_

“Shit,” Di cursed. She hastily pushed a little plaque that said “Closed” to the front of the counter and grabbed a pastry bag, only pausing to scribble a few words onto it. And numbers. She smiled dizzily, wondering when she’d turned into such a risk-taker. She liked to keep a low profile, dating-wise; she _definitely_ wasn’t one for giving her number out to strangers. But this seemed like the sort of opportunity she couldn’t miss.

Anyway, she was feeling brave.

Di jogged around the counter, skidding past the display case full of sweets and making for the aisle where Rose’s favorite jam was stocked.

She knew, of course, because she’d checked. Because—and she stifled a triumphant laugh in her throat—she really, _properly_ liked this girl. Her kindness, and her fondness for fresh bread, and the way she looked out at the world and saw something to smile at.

And it was entirely possible that The Girl, that _Rose,_ liked her, too. As her hand wrapped around the little glass jar with it’s pristine label, she made a mental note to pay for it later, and shoved it into the bag, rolling down the top so her message would be obscured.

And then she ran after them, right out the door.

“Rose!” She shouted, and her voice cracked, echoing across the parking lot. She searched the rows of cars, hoping to spot a familiar blonde head. And she did. Rose was about to get into a boring, nondescript car, with her boring, nondescript boyfriend. She called out again. “Rose!”

Rose looked up, her face already bursting into a wide smile, one with all her teeth, and that same pink slip of tongue. Would wonders never cease? She was even lovelier than before—even brighter and more beautiful outside of the shop—and Di had to stop running, if only to catch her breath. 

Rose shut the door again, saying something Di couldn’t make out to her boyfriend, and then jogged across the parking lot. Di extended the white bag out in front of her, meeting Rose halfway. “You forgot your jam,” she explained happily. When Rose reached for the bag, their fingers brushed, and she felt sparks light up her insides. Di’s smile only grew. “You don’t owe me for it either.”

“Actually,” Rose countered, “I owe you for a lot of things, I think.” And then she wrapped one of her small arms—the one holding her bag of fig jam and Di’s hopes—around the taller girl’s ribs, squeezing lightly. Di squeezed back, and all the butterflies in her stomach took flight, soaring up toward the mellow blue sky. She wondered if this was the start of something. She hoped it was.

And she quite liked hope.


	35. Blind Curve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Rose has been traveling with past companions beside the Doctor's back and he's very surprised to see her on a planet she has no business being on. Especially with those companions."  
> Pairing: Doctor x Rose and maybe Jack x Rose, but only if you squint really hard

At some point, she’s pretty sure, there was someone else with her. 

Someone with ancient eyes, and a sad smile. Great hair. She can remember the basic features—at the very edges of her consciousness—but they don’t collate to form any sort of clear picture. Or, not any picture she’s seen with these eyes. 

But then, she’s used to things slipping through her mind like this. It’s an exchange: all of time and space for something so small, so inconsequential, as memory. She’d been blistered through with impossible light—a brightness that promised to carry her back to her universe, to her destiny, away from all the pain she wanted to leave behind—and then, there was nothing. Nothing of consequence.

She woke with irises shot through with gold.

-

She can’t remember her own name anymore. So, she makes one up.

-

“I’m the Doctor,” she introduces herself, because it seems like the polite thing to do. The man just looks at her with a bemused expression; perhaps the name is familiar to him. It would make sense. She’s quite sure she’s met lots of people, especially during today’s kerfuffle. 

And the name _Torchwood_ rings a bell, though a very distant one. Maybe she’d seen him before, somewhere. In another life.

“Sorry,” she says later, as he follows her into her ship. “Mind like a sieve, me. What was your name again?”

The man looks at her, frowning. He’s quite handsome, actually. But there’s something about the eyes—something sort of… timeless.

“Jack,” he replies. “Jack Harkness.”

She grins, and it feels good to have something to smile about. To be making new memories.

“Nice to meet you, Jack. Welcome aboard.”

-

She likes having somebody about the ship. It keeps her grounded, in a way she hadn’t really known she’d needed. Reminds her to put on trousers, comb her hair—that sort of thing. 

Sure, he’s a little skittish, and sometimes he falls into long, pensive silences that make her wonder if she’s forgetting something—that is, something _important_ —and it fills her up with a strange, swelling sadness. 

But having Jack around is mostly wonderful. 

He catches on quickly when she teaches him how to navigate the controls, which is invaluable, as her ship seems to require more than two hands. How she made it across the void of space is _totally_ beyond her. But, more than that, he’s brilliant at remembering names and faces and dealing with what she calls “the domestic approach.” When she gets caught up in how _interesting_ it all is—the new problems to solve, all of the places she’s never seen before, all the creatures and species and _faces_ —he’s there to keep her from floating away. To remind her what she’d once told him: That she was there to do good.

He helps her do good.

One evening, as they sprint back to the TARDIS, her laughter soaring into the open sky like a taunt to the alien airships, he says, “God, you really _are_ the Doctor, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t know what he means. But she smiles back at him—big and beaming—and replies, “ _Oh, yes._ ”

-

They are landed back on Earth—21st century Cardiff—though she can’t think why. It’s so _dull._ There are certainly more _interesting_ places to fuel up her ship.

“It’s not _so_ bad,” Jack laughs, tugging her out of the open blue doors and onto the concrete. It feels nice to be touched—she’d forgotten that. At her gobsmacked expression, he caves. “All right, _fine._ We’ll go to Arkheon next time.”

Wordlessly, she pulls him into a hug. It’s a tight one, and Jack’s ribs creak beneath her iron grip. But other than a little “oof” of air from his mouth, he is quiet. And… he wraps his arms around her.

He is warm. Solid. He smells sort of dusty, like he’s been rolling around under the console for too long. And like aftershave. It’s wonderful.

How could she have forgotten this feeling? Of being held.

What else has she forgotten?

-

He practically drags her to the scrapyard of San Kaloon, bribing her with the prospect of thrifty ship parts. “What good can you do with a broken down t—” He pauses, resolving on the word “timeship.” She could press, perhaps, about what he isn’t saying, but there’s too much to see—too much to be done.

And she has a surprisingly good time climbing up the scrap heaps, digging into piles of parts for buried treasure. It reminds her of being a kid and building castles in the sandbox, burying her toys in the slushy mixture like hidden gems, under the cloudy London sky. She would dig them out hours later, and pretend to be surprised.

She blinks.

“Doctor!” Jack’s voice shouts. “Over here! I think I found something!”

She wipes the sweat that’s pooling on her brow, hoping she hasn’t left behind any smudgy engine grease. And in clean, efficient movements that fill her with a feral pleasure, she leaps down from the junk pile and searches for her friend.

She smiles. _Her friend._

“Doctor!”

She rounds the corner right as another voice answers, “All right, keep your hair on.” It’s familiar, somehow—she feels an itching at the back of her head, like a memory trying to shake loose. And when she sees him, it breaks free.

Rose blinks, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. They sting, blurring away the blue eyes and the black leather, and leaving behind only a vague impression. “Doctor,” she says—no, gasps—like a balloon being punctured. “Oh my God. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Rose?”

He recognizes her, which is a relief. She hardly recognizes herself.

But there’s a tentativeness to his voice, as if bracing for rejection. She steps closer. And she hears the sound of footsteps—suddenly remembering Jack. Remembering _everything_ about Jack. All they’d been through, all they’d shared. And she’d just _forgotten_ him. She looks over at her old friend, who stands just behind the Doctor. Her mouth hangs open, searching for the right words.

“Jack,” she rasps. “I’m so sorry.”

The expression on his face looks like hope. “Rose?”

“I remember everything.” And then she’s running, racing across the open space to pull one of them—both of them, if they can fit—into a hug. But the Doctor holds up his hand, stopping her in her tracks, mere inches away from him. His eyes are even brighter up close, and Rose’s double hearts soar.

He shakes his head. “You might remember, but I’m gonna have to forget. I haven’t gone back for you yet.”

“Doctor, what—?” But she realizes immediately.

_By the way, did I mention it also travels in time?_

“But you… you _are_ going back? For me?”

The Time Lord’s jaw tenses. “Yes.” It seems difficult for him to say; some latent pain lingers in his eyes. And no wonder. He’s so _young_. And she remembers how much he’d been suffering—she remembers so clearly. Her rejection must’ve hurt him worse than he’d let on.

She wishes she could reach out and hold him. But she knows you can’t touch ghosts.

“Good,” she says, with more cheer than she feels. “Because I’m going back for you, too.”

The Doctor’s jaw clicks again, only this time he’s suppressing what looks like a smile. “Good,” he answers.

Jack laughs, relief pouring out of him in palpable waves. “Good.”

Rose smiles, and it feels good to have something— _everything_ —to smile about.

-

She remembers her name. And, when she finds him—a few bodies on, grey-haired and kind—so does he.


	36. Another Day On The Tardis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Rose regenerates into a guy and runs into the eleventh doctor."  
> Pairing: Eleven x Rose

The phone in the TARDIS rang. Which was never a good sign.

How come he never got any _good_ signs? Always the ominous ones. Flashing mauve lights (or red, when humans were involved) and impossible, ringing telephones. Or worse, the TARDIS getting caught in tractor beams and such. Not to speak of the freaky messages on psychic paper. 

How come none of them ever said, _Hey, Doctor, fancy a spot of tea?_

He was actually so caught up in his cranky musings that the telephone rang its merry way into silence.

“Ah,” he said aloud, to no one. “That’s not good.”

However, it was his lucky day—or perhaps a particularly unlucky one. The phone began to ring again. It almost sounded _louder,_ more insistent, though he knew that was impossible.

The Doctor answered the phone. “Er, yes? Hello? This is the Doctor speaking.”

“It’s me, you dunderhead. I _said_ I’d call.”

“Rose!” He slammed the brakes on the TARDIS, prompting an infuriated groan. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, patting the console. “Glad you called, it’s been ages. I’m dying of boredom. Well, not literally—not even figuratively, actually. Only boring people get bored, and I don’t think I’m particularly boring.” He frowned. “Odd word, isn’t it—boring. Boring, boring, _boring._ ” He stretched the syllables out, his jaw forming an extra-round “o” shape. But he was getting off track. “Ready for a pick-up?”

“Um, yeah,” Rose answered hesitantly. “But there’s something you should know first—”

Instantly on alert, his ears pricked up—metaphorically. That had only been literal two bodies ago. 

“What is it?”

“Well, you know how I’m sort of… like you now, because of the whole…” Rose rushed through the words. “—void-spitting-me-out-in-the-right-bubble-universe thing?”

“Yep,” the Doctor answered, nodding even though she couldn’t see. “Highlight of my lives.”

“Right, well, while I was gone, I… _unintentionally_ did a thing that I’ve not done before… but that you’ve done loads of times…”

Come to think of it, the Doctor realized, she _did_ sound a bit odd. A little tickly in the throat, like she’d been clearing it a lot. Which was something he always did just after—

“Rose, you _didn’t_.”

“I’m so sorry,” she cried, “I didn’t mean to! There was just so much lava…”

The Doctor, of course, was inconsolable. “Your _first_ regeneration and I _wasn’t even there?_ Rose,” he whinged, “that’s not _fair!_ ”

“But, Doctor, that’s not—you don’t—”

“I’m coming to get you,” the Doctor announced, slamming the TARDIS back into gear. The sound she emitted was more like a shriek than a groan, but he knew the ship was just being dramatic. He wasn’t _that_ terrible of a driver. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t’ve let you stay with Jack. That man is _nothing_ but trouble.”

Rose scoffed. “ _Let_ me? You’ve never _let_ me do anything in my life. But, Doctor—”

“No, I’m serious! This is really beyond the pale, Rose. You _promised_ we’d go base jumping on Mount Tambora _together_. I bet he talked you into it, didn’t he? Did you at least take photos?”

“Doctor, I think you’re missing the point.”

But the Time Lord just petulantly stomped his foot. “It was going to be our _anniversary trip_.”

“ _Doctor,_ ” Rose barked. “Listen. Just _listen_ to me. Do you notice anything… different about me? My voice, maybe?”

He paused, considering. “Not really.”

The line fell silent for a long moment, during which the TARDIS shuddered threateningly.

“Nothing?” His wife and traveling partner sounded both amused and irritated all at once—he could tell, because he’d become quite a study in the subtleties of Rose Tyler. “Maybe that it’s a bit… low?”

“I mean,” he muttered, scratching his chin, “I suppose—if you really pay attention, but… not really.” He cleared his throat. “You sound the same to me.” 

Rose laughed. It rumbled down the line, low and gravelly and warm as ever. The Doctor’s hearts skipped several beats, and a smile twitched over his lips.

“I’m still me, then? Still Rose?”

“Yeah,” the Doctor answered softly, his hand gripping the little rotary phone far too tightly. “Or whoever you want to be.” With his other hand, he pulled a lever, and felt the TARDIS rattle to a stop. “I’m right outside, love. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Alright,” Rose said, sounding happy for the first time since he’d heard her new voice. He could hear the giddiness. It broke over him like a wave, deep and rolling. “Let me say my goodbyes and I’ll be right down.”

“I can’t wait.”

But he did wait. A whole five minutes, before the doors burst open, and through them came Rose.

His Rose.


	37. An Eyeful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Tentoo wearing a kilt and Rose being into it."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

It should _not_ be this hard not to shag her boyfriend. 

For starters, they already shagged once in the hotel shower this morning, and the process of turning her jellied legs back into operational limbs had taken half an hour and several protein bars. She can’t undergo that kind of process again in the middle of a crowded wedding venue.

Not even if it would be _incredibly_ easy to sneak off somewhere and hike up her dress and—

But no.

Because she’s a grown, adult woman. She has self-control. She has _responsibilities._ This is her dear friend’s wedding day, and she’s not going to disappear somewhere. She is going to be mature. She is going to be present.

She is going to find the bar if it kills her.

Rose meanders across the grassy courtyard, eyes scanning the crowd for some sort of congregation that might indicate drinks are being made. She pointedly does not look at the Doctor, who is sitting at their table and chatting animatedly with one of the groomsmen. She’d left them in the midst of some sort of pissing contest about who has the highest level of clearance, which—if either of them had the good sense God gave a _rock_ —isn’t exactly the sort of conversation you have in the middle of a wedding, surrounded by hundreds of people.

She’d gripped the Doctor’s knee under the table, squeezing it warningly, but instead of catching on to her silent suggestion that he _shut it_ , he’d just… arched an eyebrow. As if to say, “Are you feeling me up?” (Which she was _not_.)

(Not even those manly little hairs under her fingertips could distract—)

And then, to make matters worse, the corner of his mouth had hitched mid-word, and he’d dropped _his_ hand to _her_ knee, and his skin was so _warm_ , and that was just _really_ not the point.

Not today.

Today, she is _not_ going to shag her boyfriend in the middle of Jake’s wedding.

As Rose nears the bar, Jackie materializes, already looking a bit tipsy. “Rose!” She cries, pulling her daughter in for a hug, despite having sat next to her for the duration of the ceremony. “A lovely day, isn’t it? Couldn’t’ve asked for better weather.” And she smiles proudly, as if she feels personally responsible for the sunny skies.

Rose giggles, giving her mum a squeeze. “Yeah, ’s gorgeous. And the grooms look terribly handsome—”

“ _Talking_ of handsome,” Jackie interrupts, “ _what_ were you thinking, letting himself dress like that for a wedding?” And, of course, Rose groans at the implication rich in Jackie’s voice. “Annette says she caught an eyeful when he was out there on the dance floor, and no wonder! Is he going full Scot under there?”

“ _Mum!_ ” Rose cries, trying not to laugh despite her rapidly pinking cheeks. “Like I’d know what he’s got going on under that kilt.”

Jackie just rolls her eyes. “Oh, hush. I’ve got eyes—and you can hardly keep your hands off him.”

(That’s not true. She is painfully _aware_ of how much she’s kept her hands off of her hot, half-human boyfriend.)

Groaning, Rose mutters, “I need a drink.” With a quick kiss to her mum’s cheek, she ducks out of the circle of the woman’s pink blazer embrace and sidles up to the bar.

“No you don’t!” Jackie protests, too loudly. “Not if I’m to get any grandchildren! Lord knows I’ve waited long enough for the pair of you to get your heads on straight!”

Rose’s head falls into her arms, elbows resting on the bar. “Oh, _God._ ”

The bloke behind the bar shoots her a look that’s full of pity. “What’ll it be?”

“Something strong,” she replies with a wry grin.

Stifling a chuckle, he pours her a double shot of vodka. 

It’s already gone by the time she makes it back to their table. And to her relief, so is the bloke who had been riling the Doctor up. Rose slides into her seat with a huff of air, feeling the pleasant head-rush of the alcohol slipping through her. She grins at her date. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, smirking. He looks her over, no doubt noting her flushed cheeks and the laugh threatening to take her over. “Your mum asked about the kilt, didn’t she?”

Biting her lip exaggeratedly, she nods. “Yep.”

“Of course,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. "I didn't know it would be such a hit."

It’s certainly a hit with her, anyway. But she doesn’t say that.

“Apparently, all her friends are talking about it.” Rose leans in confidentially, not missing the way the Doctor’s eyes drop to her v-neckline before returning to her face. His eyes on her feel heated, and she has to swallow down the need to snog him. “ _Apparently,_ your little demonstration out on the dance floor gave a bunch of strange women a peek at the goods. Not even _I_ know what’s going on under there, which begs the question: what’s a girl gotta do to get an eyeful around here?” She’s barely aware of her own hand creeping back to his knee, her fingers flexing around the knobby bones. His skin his hot, and her fingers are chilled from holding her drink, and it feels so good to slide them up—

“Rose...” The Doctor interrupts her thoughts, his voice coming out as a pitchy whine. “You _said_ no shagging at the wedding.”

“We’re just talking,” Rose protests, her grin taking on a wicked glint. At least she’s not the only one who seems to be having difficulty with self-control.

“But you’re—”

“My hands are under the table. Nobody can see them.” She squeezes him affectionately, and his thigh tenses under her fingers. “Anyway, I’m just touching your leg, aren’t I? If you were wearing a suit, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“I thought you _liked_ the kilt.”

Unfortunately, she _loves_ the kilt.

“I love the kilt,” she admits. “The ease of access is… quite nice…”

The Doctor’s eyes are on fire.

It’s one of her favorite things about this life they’re leading together—the way he looks at her now. There is no hint of the restraint that had once bound their entire relationship; or if there is, it’s not because of any grand, selfless gesture for the good of the universe. It’s usually just to stop them shagging in public places.

Like wedding venues.

“Right,” the Doctor finally says, and Rose is suddenly aware of her fingers scratching lightly across his flexing inner thigh. His jaw is grinding like stones under the earth. He snatches her hand out from underneath the plaid and tugs her out of her seat, mumbling, “Sod it. We’re shagging at the wedding.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Rose is still grinning, tongue poking out from between her teeth, even as she trips over the grass toward one of the outbuildings. She briefly wishes she’d worn her running shoes, but it seems she’s lost the habit. 

(She should know better; he’s still the Doctor, after all.)

As he drags her around the corner, immediately pressing her up against the brick that scratches deliciously at her bare shoulder blades, she giggles. He hums against her neck before pressing a kiss to it, shivers rocketing down her spine.

“You know, my mum also mentioned something about grandchildren,” Rose teases, tugging at the hem of his kilt impatiently. She doesn’t know why she says it, only that it leaves her lips and she can’t take it back. The Doctor pulls back to look at her.

His eyes are molten, and she feels the breath leave her body in a swoop.

“Don’t tempt me, Rose Tyler.”

“Why not?”

Something fragile takes over his expression—something unbearably gentle. “Because I would. Whenever you’re ready, I would.” And he presses a kiss to her lips that feels impossibly deep, touching more than just her lips, more than just her body. It aches, it’s so good.

 _Every time is like the first time,_ she thinks in a daze.

How can it be like that, with them? How can it always be _so good?_

She doesn’t realize she’s said anything aloud until he cuts off her hushed moan. “Stuff of legends,” he laughs, running his hands up the outsides of her thighs. He chuckles darkly at her shudder. “Now keep quiet, or we’ll be caught.”

They are not caught. Or anyway, not before they shag. Like they said they wouldn’t. In the middle of their friend’s wedding.

And Rose, much to her pleasure, finds out _exactly_ what’s going on under the kilt.


	38. And I'll be running home to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Bit of a sad hurty/comforty prompt, in which Rose takes a moment after the earth is back in its proper place to look in her room and she finds a silver-wood-like box that contains letters from the Doctor to her, and for once the TARDIS translates Gallifreyan for her and she reads about the little moments and thoughts from the Doctor as he tries to deal with (and by deal with, I mean doesn't deal with at all) his grief and loneliness since losing her."  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

It had been a long few days, but the world was starting to feel solid under her feet. Less like something that could be stolen—snatched away at any moment—and more like the home she'd left behind. The Doctor had helped, in his way. Parking the TARDIS outside Jackie's flat (which had been restored to its proper owner, _temporarily_. Pete was already looking for a bigger place, for them and the baby.) Walking around London with her. Making her laugh when she looked bereft, and leaving her alone with her thoughts when she needed time.

She couldn't say why, but it seemed he'd grown that way—grown a little more emotionally mature, maybe—in the years she'd been gone. Donna gleefully took some credit for it, and Martha had just shrugged. "He's still a thousand-year-old man-child," she teased. "He's just finally worked out that people need space sometimes." And not the literal, celestial kind.

Much as Rose _wanted_ to spend every second with the Doctor, she couldn't. It was still too hard, too strange, too _something._ The world had settled, but they had not.

These thoughts consumed her as she sat alone in her old room. In the kitchen, Jackie was making plenty of noise under the guise of wrangling up dinner. The Doctor was out there, too, chattering on about something to Tony, who made cooing noises in reply. She could make out the drone of the telly as Pete caught up on this world’s news. Everything was in its proper place.

Rose flopped back on her bed, arms outstretched.

_Or not._

Her knuckles had struck something—something hard. Rolling to her stomach, she dug her hand under her pillow, forming her fingers around the shape of the misplaced object. It felt almost like a jewelry box, only they'd never been able to afford a nice, solid one when she was growing up. Only the plastic kind. But this—

Rose pulled the box out from under the pillow, surprised by how heavy it was. It _felt_ like wood, but looked almost like metal—sort of silvery, but with a grain. And on it was a pattern, a series of interlocking circles—like someone had set down dozens of little coffees without coasters, only not quite like that either. The curves weren't blurry or smeared, merely carved. She fiddled with the latch and, after barely a moment of touch, the lid flipped open. The inside was scarcely less enigmatic: deep blue velvet lining, and a pile of folded paper—different weights and tones and textures—marked with those same interlocking circles, all over, in different patterns.

Rose knew where she'd seen that writing before. She knew what it was. But she also knew she couldn't read it—not without help.

-

She stole out to the TARDIS on light feet, though she was quite sure nobody would notice her absence. They were justifiably occupied by the baby, and the telly, and each other. She smiled at the thought. Once, she'd been unable to get the Doctor into her mum's flat under any temptation or threat; now, he seemed more at home there than she did.

She was still grinning as she stepped up to the TARDIS, pulling the key from around her neck—but before she could get it into the lock, the doors swung open. "Oh!" she laughed, startled. "Thanks! I guess you know why I'm here." She glanced up over her shoulder, scanning her building’s windows to see if anyone was looking out at her. But nobody was. 

She was on her own.

Rose stepped through the open doors, clutching the heavy little box to her chest.

"Now, I know you don't normally do this, but—just this once," she begged, approaching the console, "can you translate for me? I think it's important."

Apparently, the TARDIS agreed. Scarcely a second later, the circular patterns wavered and re-formed into letters. Into English—or some facsimile of it. _Property of_ — The following letters were a jumble, incomprehensible for a moment, before they blurred and re-formed _again._

To say: _Property of the Doctor._

Rose's brows furrowed. Why had the Doctor's box been hidden in her bedroom?

Warily, she glanced up at the center console. "Do you think I should open it?" A flash was her only answer, as careless as a shrug— _if_ she was interpreting the timeship right. (She was still getting the hang of TARDIS-speak.) With a shrug of her own, she made for the jumpseat and hopped up, cross-legged and curious. She lifted the lid without further hesitation, figuring the TARDIS would stop her if she started to look at something she shouldn't. 

The rotor gave another flash, long and slow, like a sigh. She could almost _hear_ the TARDIS saying, "That's _not_ how this works."

"Oh, you know it is," Rose teased. "You keep us out of trouble. _Well._ Too much trouble."

The lights flashed quickly, like a burst of laughter.

Rose giggled. And she withdrew the first piece of paper. Unfolded it.

And gasped.

 _To Rose,_ she read, _even if you'll never see this._

Her fingers flexed around the paper, crumpling its ragged edges. A letter from the Doctor—to her? She glanced over at the time rotor, eyes wide. "He—while I was gone?"

The TARDIS was silent.

So, Rose read on.

_To Rose—even if you'll never see this._

_I'm writing this down because I don't want to forget what it feels like. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want to forget it so badly that I'm hoping the paper can absorb it all, purge it out of me. That if it's in ink, it won't be inside me anymore. I can't tell. It's hard, it hurts so much, and it's been such a long time since I've written like this—in the old language. It tends to get things… tangled._

_I'm about to leave Alpha Lupi—in the future, after it went supernova. There's nothing there anymore. I used up everything the star had and then flew away. That's how I do things, Rose. I fly away. I use people and places up, and then I run._

_That's what I liked about you: you never ran away. It's what I still like. Will like. Because you're alive and there for the liking. Just not… here. I wish you were here now, to tell me not to run. Or to run with me._

_I'm not making sense. I may never make sense again. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow. Only there's_

and then the page ended abruptly, in a splatter of ink.

Rose frowned. "What happened?" But the ship was still quiet, seemingly content to leave her to her reading. There was a sense of radiant contentment that convinced her to keep going; this was the right thing to do. She flipped to the next scrap of what looked like parchment.

_Dear Rose,_

_Sorry about that last_

_But maybe I'll get rid of it, try again with a new start, new letter. Or maybe I won't. I did say I wanted to remember. I still can't decide whether that's true or not._

_The interruption at the end of my letter came in the form of a very bossy, very angry ginger woman called Donna. I can tell you this, because you can't tell anyone, but she's quite scary, actually. And she saved me. I'm always being saved, you know, by you humans. You brilliant humans._

_She asked me about you._

_Rose, I didn't know what to tell her. I don't know what to tell anyone about_

_I wish you were here. I wish you hadn't had to cry for me. I can't stop thinking of you, crying on that beach. Over me! I mean, look at me, I'm old and stupid! And you were crying…_

_And you said_

_Sorry, I_

The lines skipped, and Rose's eyes covered the distance even as they blurred with tears. 

_I'm sorry, Rose. I'm so sorry._

That was the end of the letter. She wondered if his language, his writing, had wavered like those words did at the end—if they blurred, as if smeared with tears. Or was that just from her own eyes?

She sniffed. The TARDIS gave a low hum, soothing. And she picked up the next letter.

_Dear Rose,_

_I think you'd be proud of me. I've made a friend called Martha Jones. She's studying to be a doctor! Isn't that funny? Two doctors aboard the TARDIS._

_Two doctors and no rose._

_I wish you could meet her_ —

And the next. A rapid, slurred-looking scrap of paper.

_Rose, I don't know what to do without you. I don't know how to be. I think something's broken. Martha keeps… I don't know, looking at me and I keep wondering what she sees. I don't know how to look at myself without your eyes. That doesn't make any sense, does it? Rose, I hope you're alright. I hope you're happy. I'm trying not to keep track of the relative time streams, but it's hard—_

And the next.

This one was covered in words. Charcoal or pencil, smudgy and layered. There was text over top of text, nearly illegible. _She keeps walking away… Perfect Rose, Perfect Rose… I keep dreaming of a girl..._ The writing felt fevered, somehow. Frantic. As if he was trying even harder not to forget.

And her face. Rose stared at the sketched impression of her own face, wondering if he really saw her that way. Shrouded in mystery. Unknowable.

Beautiful.

She turned to the next letter.

_Dear Rose,_

_I think I fell_

_Well. I wasn't myself, you see, in the most literal sense. Martha was keeping an eye on me, but not close enough. I met this woman, and she had golden hair and kind eyes and… I think I thought she was you._

_And then I woke up, and she wasn't._

_Nobody is. I know that now. Can I ask you questions? I suppose you can't answer that, or any questions at all, but I still want to ask them. (I should've given you psychic paper. It could still work across the void. Maybe?)_

_How's Mickey? And Pete? I don't really want to know how your mum is, but I suppose it's rude not to ask._

_Ah, well, rude and not ginger._

She chuckled as he skimmed right over the unasked question.

_Are you still at Torchwood?_

_What do you think about? What constellations do you like to look at, over there on Pete's World? Do you still_

_No, that's not fair._

_Rose, I still miss you. When will I stop missing you?_

And the next. It was a long one, and mostly a rehashing of what he and Martha called The Year That Never Was. It read like a diary entry, or a therapy session, with even more broken sentences and blur marks. She could see the places where he’d wept for his old friend, for his new friends, for the world he’d had to save. He told her what it felt like to be ancient, really ancient, and for everything to ache all over.

He told her that he’d thought of her, even when his mind was going.

Rose’s heart was pounding by the end of it.

And then she lifted the next letter out, which wasn't a letter so much as a scribbled note on the back of what _looked_ like a receipt for a market stall. He'd bought eggs—lots of eggs.

_No time, Donna's back. (Long story.) She keeps asking me about you. I think she's trying to understand something, but there's nothing to understand. I just miss you. Still. Rose, it's been long enough. I want to stop missing you._

There was another receipt.

_I’m sorry, that was a lie._

On and on Rose went, reading through the Doctor's letters and notes and looking at the spilled ink and thumbprint smears. There was no consistency; he seemed to have taken every possible chance to jot down a thought or a question or an apology. So many apologies. 

She hadn't imagined so much _pain_. She hadn't even considered that he'd missed her _this much_ —enough to write letters, day after day. It hurt, an active ache lodging up in her ribcage like a fist strangling her heart. She tried to breathe slowly, but every time he wrote something—

_I think I might have lov_

_...and it reminded me of your hair. Just the right colour._

_Please come back. I know it's a lot to hope for. But please try._

_I'm not sad all the time, I promise. Just a little. Donna says I mope but…_

_Rose Tyler, I_

On and on. To the end of the box. As she unfolded the last piece of paper, she realized her hands were shaking.

_Well, Rose Tyler, you've done it._

_You brilliant woman. You saved us all. I'm writing this while you do—I don't know, human things up in your mum’s flat. Jackie's barely let me get a breath in, let alone a break, but I've ducked out to the TARDIS for one last letter. I've been keeping these in your bedroom while you were gone—it was an excuse to pop by when I started to miss you too much, how silly is that?—but now that you're back… what if you find them?_

_What if you don't?_

_I’ve re-ordered them so they make sense (as much as I ever make sense). You're clever enough to take these to the TARDIS for translation. But I don't know what's more frightening: the thought of you standing there, looking just as you did before you left (only maybe more beautiful) and reading every page of pain I felt without you, every half-thought and hurt—or the thought that you'll never know._

_That I love you._

Rose’s heart thundered in her chest. She read the sentence over, and then over again, disbelieving. The words swam in front of her, and she had to blink rapidly before reading again. The TARDIS had picked up a low, soothing buzz, sounding pleased.

_Rose, please. Come find me, when you've read this. Tell me you love me again._

_I'll do better this time._

_With all of my hearts,_

_The Doctor_

The creased and crinkled paper fluttered down to the grating, abandoned. Rose was already running. Behind her, the TARDIS let out a juddering laugh, her lights flashing happily through the empty console room.


	39. The Girl On The Doorstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Tabloid Princess Rose Tyler meets esteemed Professor John Smith. Which doctor is your choice."  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

There are good parts and bad parts of living so close to the university. Obviously, the lack of a commute is a significant plus. The cozy, cookie-cutter flats are a pro _or_ a con, depending on your perspective. And he can’t complain about the rent, all things considered. But, without a doubt, the worst part is all the bloody noise.

It’s still dark when John rises, woken not by the sleepy echoes of oncoming sunrays, not by his own internal clock—which, it has to be said, is quite spectacularly fallible—but by the sound of voices. Loud voices. _Lots_ of voices. He can _and will_ sleep through blaring house music, the near-constant sirens, and he once slept through a rather prolonged instance of competitive cycling, but something about the sounds of shouted laughter and triumphant whooping pulls him into consciousness without warning. 

“Bugger,” he mumbles, rolling out of bed and toward the window, squinting into the near-dark in search of the source of the noise.

There’s nothing to see. Just the other side of the street.

Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his face and glances back at the clock. 4:45am. It seems that today will be getting an early start, whether he likes it or not.

He fumbles his way through the process of making coffee, his fingers feeling unwieldy and odd at such an ungodly hour. It’s apparent that his brain is still catching up with his body, or vice versa, and the only thing that will bridge the connection is caffeine. Loads of caffeine.

He likes his coffee dark and sweet, loaded with sugar but no cream. There’s something about the bright bitterness that doesn’t need tempering—a necessary shock to his system. His first sip is followed by a sigh of gratitude. And then—more shouting, from somewhere across the road. A woman’s voice. It rises above the general ripple of noise, sounding rather close but unintelligible. John rolls his eyes; he’s only ever pulled all-nighters for academic purposes, and while there’s maybe a tiny, little part of him that wishes he'd had something like the real “university experience,” he can’t wrap his head around people voluntarily partying at nearly five o’clock in the morning.

He’s only made it a third of the way through his cup of coffee when the babble and shouting reaches a head, seeming to coalesce right on his doorstep. “Piss off!” someone shouts. Brows furrowed, he’s already making for the front door when he hears a sequence of rapid, cheerful knocks. Too polite to be police, not timid enough to be a neighbor. It’s with a vague sense of curiosity that he swings the door open, only to be taken completely and utterly aback by the woman on his doorstep.

Her lips are painted cherry red, dark and shiny and bitten-looking, and tiny crystalline rainbows scatter her skin, packed most heavily over the crests of her cheekbones and her cupid’s bow. She looks like the victim of a glitter bomb, actually, the stuff gathering in the nips and tucks of her clinging black dress, and then trailing down her long, bronze legs, which John is alarmed to find himself staring at before he manages to blink back up at her face. Her eyes are obscured by a pair of very large, very dark sunglasses.

And she is smiling.

"Hello,” she says, greeting him like an old friend and very much _not_ like a stranger.

“Er. Hello.”

John distinctly knows that this is _not_ how normal people dress or act at five in the morning.

As he glances over her shoulder, his eyes widen. He’d been so caught up in trying to make sense of the woman that he’d hardly noticed the crowd gathered behind her. The cameras. So many people with cameras. And microphones and hungry expressions. Dozens of them, and that’s a _very_ conservative estimate. His eyes scan down the road and he can make out more figures coming. More cameras.

Some of the voices are calling out, "Miss Tyler!" They don't seem to have much interest in _him—_ just the woman. And no wonder.

“Can I come in, please?”

His gaze snaps back to her. The woman’s smile is fixed, persistently sparkling up at him. 

" _What?_ " 

"As you can see,” she explains calmly, “I'm being followed. May I come inside?"

"Inside… _my_ flat?" 

The woman’s lips stretch wider, and he wishes he could see her eyes, make sense of the expression. It looks strangely taut without any eyes to read, like a lifeless mannequin. All sparkle, no substance. "Yeah," she affirms brightly. "I make a mean cup of tea, if that's any encouragement."

John's brain is still reeling, and he blinks down at the woman. "I have coffee,” he says dumbly.

And it's just for a moment—barely even there at all—but one corner of her mouth droops. For a second, she looks less bright and more fragile. And in that second, he makes his mind up, not even realizing that he’d been unsure before, or that there had been a decision to make. He’s a mathematics professor; he doesn’t often have excuses to meet interesting people, let alone rescue them. Shining women don’t just fall into his lap. 

And he thinks it’s possible that, despite all her bluster, she’s scared.

He shifts to one side, opening his home to the strange woman on his doorstep. “Right, then. Come in.”

-

The moment she steps inside, the whole place seems to shrink around her. Or perhaps she just fills the space, with her bouncy, golden curls and confident walk. His sloppy stacks of books and secondhand furniture fade further into the dusty recesses of the flat, as if chased away by her presence. Her spike heels clack briskly down his front hall, toward the kitchen, and John finds himself following her in a bewildered daze, wondering exactly what he’s doing, inviting a complete stranger into the place where he keeps almost every thing of importance in his entire life.

By the time they reach the kitchen, she’s shed her sunglasses and kicked off her shoes, carrying them in one hand and then setting them politely at the corner of the small table, next to an empty seat that she is—presumably—claiming. Crossing the room on bare feet, she picks up the kettle and carries it to the sink, glancing back over her shoulder with another unreadable smile. She turns on the tap. “You’re a professor?”

She’s so much smaller without the shoes.

Despite his distraction, she sounds genuinely interested, and John answers before thinking better of it. “That I am. Differential geometry.”

The woman’s eyebrows arch in a way that he’s not exactly unused to. Most people don’t know what the hell he’s on about when he tells them about his field. But there’s something good natured about her expression, self-deprecating even if she hasn’t said anything. Yet.

“You’re, like... properly brainy, then,” she comments, turning off the tap and returning the kettle to its base. He suddenly becomes aware that he’s standing uselessly in the middle of his own kitchen, and he feels a sudden rush of awkwardness, as if _he’s_ the one who doesn’t belong. She looks over at him, eyes encouraging.

“That’s what they tell me,” he answers absently. “Hang on, what are you doing?”

The woman freezes, fingers poised over the power button. “I’m… making tea.”

“No, yeah. I know. I can _see_ —” One hand rakes furiously through his hair while he tries to make sense of the situation. He’s not even sure what question to ask first, what the most important missing piece here is. “I _mean_ , who are you and why are you in my kitchen?”

Her face scrunches up in confusion, as if he’s being utterly incomprehensible. The look juxtaposes oddly against her sparkling cheeks. Her red lips purse. “You let me in. And the kitchen seemed less invasive than the bedroom,” she adds, her eyebrow once again arching while her lips twitch in amusement. His answering stare is blank, confounded. Finally, she sighs and presses the button to start the kettle. “I’m Rose.”

“Rose,” he repeats. “Right.”

“D’you have any oolong?”

“Top cupboard on the left,” he replies tonelessly. The woman—Rose—follows his directions and stretches up on her toes to reach the rather old and probably dusty box of tea. She also snags a mug and then shoots him an inquiring look, holding it out to him. “None for me, thanks. So, _Rose,_ why exactly were you on the run from paparazzi at five in the morning?”

“God,” she laughs. “Is it really that late? Mum’s gonna be furious. I’ll miss the fitting.” And then she mumbles something about _the arse-crack of dawn._

John recognizes her evasion for what it is; he’s spent enough time with guilty students trying to wriggle their way out of low grades and missed deadlines. And normally, he prefers the patient approach, but he’s standing like a stranger in the middle of his own kitchen in his bloody _pyjamas,_ and the person in front of him seems determined to generate more questions than answers.

He crosses his arms. “I’d love an explanation, if you don’t mind.”

Rose slides down into his kitchen chair. The wooden spindles look homely and dull against her black dress and bare, sparkle-dusted arms. “And if I _do_ mind?”

“I’d still love an explanation.”

“Of course you would,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Look, it’s not that complicated. My father is… important. The press has a bit of an interest in me. In my,” she waves her hand before it drops limply to the table, “comings and goings.”

“They’d have to be damn interesting comings and goings, to gather a crowd like that this early.”

Rose scoffs. “Oh, you think _that_ was bad? Should’ve seen my sixteenth birthday party.” 

Suddenly, a piece of information slides into place. _Miss Tyler,_ the reporters had been shouting. _Tyler._

_Rose Tyler._

The name doesn’t ring a bell particularly, but he _does_ know that Pete Tyler—one of the wealthiest, most successful businessmen in the country—has a wife and a daughter. It had all been a bit of a scandal, actually. His career had risen from nowhere, and he’d been a notorious playboy when he worked for Vitex, the papers plastered with his exploits. But years later, a woman had appeared from nowhere claiming to be his wife, followed by a big, public vow renewal. The event had been marked by aggressive headlines about “long-lost love,” and the ceremony was largely press fodder. And there was something about the daughter…

He can’t quite remember.

Still, something tells him he’s looking at one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. 

And she’s barefoot in his kitchen, smirking up at him with honey-colored eyes that are somehow open and closed simultaneously, observant and keen. She’s waiting for him to connect the dots, looking aware of the inevitability. But then, she must be used to getting recognized.

“You’re Pete Tyler’s daughter,” John blurts out.

“Got it in one.”

The kettle begins to whistle. And before he can say anything else, she’s up on her feet.

He watches the way he moves through his kitchen. It’s so organic, like she’s lived all her life in places like this one. Bright red toenails against faded linoleum. There’s no snobbishness in the way she drops the tea sachet into the near-boiling water, nothing artful about the way she takes a deep, slow sniff of the steam. She doesn’t come back to the table, instead leaning back against the countertop and eyeing him over her mug.

John clears his throat. “Do you… do this often?”

She looks confused again.

“Hide out in strange bloke’s flats, I mean,” he clarifies. And Rose dims further, looking down at her tea. Does she think he’s judging her? “You did it brilliantly, you know. Talking and smiling your way in. I barely knew what hit me.” He watches her lips twitch, and the urge to make her smile again overtakes him. “Then again, at this hour, I think you could have _actually_ hit me and I wouldn’t have known the difference. What on _earth_ were you thinking, wandering around this late—early? Whatever.”

“It’s not my fault,” she protests, finally looking back at him, eyes pleading. “My friend, Keisha—we were in primary together—it’s her twenty-first birthday. She studies here. I hadn’t seen her in ages, and… the party just got a bit, I guess, out of control? Went later than I expected. It was fine, I was handling it, but then… my ex showed up.”

Another puzzle piece.

_There was something about the daughter..._

A big blowout at the vow-renewal. Allegations of something? John’s face twists into a frown. He can remember a lawsuit.

“He called the press,” Rose spits. “He _lives_ for that shit. Thinks it’s all just free promotion for his _band_. By the time I could call Jack—that’s my driver—it was too late. Vans were already showing up. So I, er, hopped the gate and ran for it. Not easy in those heels.” Underneath the glitter, her cheeks begin to flush. He can’t tell if it’s indignation or embarrassment, but he can’t help admiring it. Admiring _her_ , for taking her fate into her own hands like that. “And then—well, your porch light was on… I thought… I dunno.” She takes a sip of tea, calming herself. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

John snorts.

“What’s your name, by the way? I forgot to ask.”

“Oh, I—” He stumbles out, “That’s—John.”

“Wasn’t a trick question or anything.” Rose looks as if she might laugh, pearly white teeth biting down into her bottom lip. Her genuine smile is such a stark contrast from the one before—the mysterious expression that had earned her entry into his house. He stares. “It’s nice to meet you, John. Thanks for letting me in.” She looks around the kitchen, her eyes gone soft. “You’ve got a nice place.”

“Thanks.” It’s not that nice; it’s a fairly basic flat in a not-terribly-posh neighborhood. “And, y’know, you’re welcome.” He takes one last sip of his coffee, content to let the comfortable silence reign. It’s strange, actually, to feel so at home with a stranger in his flat. Rose seems to have made a space for herself and settled right in, and he finds he doesn’t really _mind._ “So, do you need to call your driver again?”

She shrugs. “Probably, yeah. And Mickey.”

“Mickey?”

“My best mate.” Her corresponding look is fond, speaking to years of intimacy and real, genuine affection. “There’s this charity do,” and her smile twists into a wry look, almost a grimace, “tonight actually—that’s the fitting I’m late for. My dress. Anyway, I put off getting a date. You know how it is.” He doesn’t, but he nods anyway as she flips up the edge of her skirt and withdraws a mobile from a black holster. It’s strapped around her upper thigh—leather, slim and discreet, but he boggles anyway, even as she continues to nonchalantly explain. “But Mickey’s always game for a fake date night, ‘specially if there’s free drinks. And there will be a _lot_ of drinks at this one—not like we can’t afford them.”

The feeling crawling through John’s gut is foreign, and he has to halt the urge to—to what? To ask her to stay? Ridiculous.

He can’t tell what irks him most—the ephemeral concept of a “Mickey,” of a friend so dear that you could “fake date” him on a moment’s notice, or the thought of Rose just… leaving. And him never seeing her again. Of her falling back out of his life like she’d fallen into it. Bright and sparkling and mysterious. He _knows_ there’s more to discover, like there’s a big flashing sign over her head saying, “Something Amazing, If You Care To Look.”

Her fingers are flying over the phone screen when he finally speaks up. “I could take you.” Rose’s head jerks up, and he pauses. “To your fitting. That way you wouldn’t have to fight through the crowd to get to your driver.” John’s mouth turns up in a grin as he adds, “I’m not opposed to mowing through a few nosy journalists.”

Rose’s lips spread wide, and then she catches herself, pressing them together. But the lingering amusement is gratifying in a way that John is quickly becoming attached to. “My hero,” she teases. “But it’s on the other side of London.” When he doesn’t respond, she tacks on: “Don’t you have better things to do with your Saturday?”

For a moment, John tries to summon the thought of one thing—one _single_ thing—he’d like to do more than spend time with Rose and her slow-growing, sunshine smile. And he comes up empty.

His whole life is solving problems, examining complex equations that reflect the intricacies of the universe. But people are infinitely more complex. Infinitely more interesting. And Rose Tyler is perhaps the most interesting person he’s met yet. Not because she’s rich, or because she seems like she’s got baggage. Not even particularly because she showed up mysteriously on his doorstep at five in the morning.

But because she seems impossibly comfortable standing in his kitchen, sipping tea and smiling at him like he’s done something incredible.

And no one has ever felt like that before.

He takes a deep breath. “Nope. Not a thing.”

“Well then,” Rose replies, “you’d better change out of those pyjamas.” 

She looks immensely pleased as her eyes rake up and down his body, like she’s swallowed a star and it’s glowing out through her eyes and teeth. So impossibly bright. It’s only his mortified realization that he is, unfortunately, wearing quite dreadfully ratty pyjamas—has been this whole time, in fact—that turns him around, sends him down the hall. He’s halfway up the stairs when she calls out, “John!”

“Yeah?” he calls back, pinching his eyes shut. He hopes she hasn’t changed her mind.

“Wear a suit, if you’ve got one.” He can hear her smiling. “Something fit for a charity do.”

Chuckling, John runs the rest of the way up the stairs. And he’s dressed to impress by half past. His early morning, he decides, is off to a _very_ good start.


	40. Sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Rose gets a nose piercing."  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose

The guy standing behind the glass display case is kind of hot.

Rose isn’t the only person who thinks this, apparently. There’s a bouncy little blonde girl lingering off to the side of the counter. Is she waiting in some sort of one-person line? Does she work here? Did she see the banging hot piercer through the shop window, decide, “What the hell, I’d let him put a needle in me!” and just wander in?

If she _did,_ Rose can’t exactly blame her.

Because, okay—he’s _very_ hot.

That is, he’s very _obviously_ too old for her, and he’s frowning at the bubbly blonde like she’s the sole cause of every problem he’s ever had in his life, but he’s doing it _gorgeously._ He’s got those true-blue eyes that remind Rose of aquamarine gemstones or the light slicing through clear water or something else equally clichéd. He’s got two armfuls of tattoos, twisting up around his forearms in a series of images that she _wants_ to stare at—even if she won’t, because she’s polite and he’s a professional—before disappearing into his pushed-up cuffs. And his voice—

“You’ll have to schedule an appointment,” the guy says firmly, staring down the potential-customer. His voice is brusque and Northern. “I’m booked for the afternoon, Lynda.” The girl looks disappointed, but not surprised as she turns away from the counter, her eyes momentarily skimming over Rose with an envious expression. There’s something in it that Rose can’t identify. Hunger, maybe.

Rose realizes she’s hovering in the doorway when the girl—that is, Lynda—pauses in front of her, and she very nearly trips out of the way, allowing the dejected blonde to exit. The quiet jangle of a bell signals that she is now alone in the shop—alone with _him,_ and she wonders exactly what she’s gonna _do,_ now that she’s standing inside—right where he can see her, his eyes glinting like the stones beneath the glass. Narrowed and intent.

She hasn’t made an appointment.

“Hi, I’m Rose,” she greets, awkwardly shuffling forward onto the old Persian rug that adorns the main part of the tattoo and piercing parlor. It’s thick and plush and she imagines it would be nice to walk over barefoot— _and_ she doesn’t know why _that’s_ the thing that comes to mind, with the tall, broad, tattooed bloke staring at her. “Sorry,” she adds. “I don’t have an appointment. It, er, said online that you took walk-ins and—”

His expression cracks for just a second. It doesn’t quite soften, really, but he somehow doesn’t look so grumpy either. “ _You_ don’t need an appointment,” he replies. And then he’s quiet again. No explanation.

So, _she_ didn’t need an appointment, but Lynda—whoever she was—did? Rose’s brow furrows at the seeming injustice of the situation.

The guy almost smiles, then. At her frown, like he finds her dismay amusing. _How odd._

“Ex-girlfriend,” he clips out, his jaw working steadily. “ _She_ needs an appointment.”

“Right.” She nods, some of the tension releasing. But she still feels a bit shy of approaching the piercing case, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s the way the man’s heavy blue eyes track her movements across the room, hawk-like and attentive. She wanders over to one wall instead and looks up, to where a framed print of some flash tattoos hang; they’re all based on constellations. A lady in chains—Andromeda. Two children on the back of a leaping ram—Aries. A regal-looking dog with piercing eyes, almost a wolf—Canis Major. The art style is simple, and yet, Rose can’t take her eyes off of the figures.

“Did you do these?”

He nods, and her eyes return to the print. Down in the corner is a little signature, simple and contained within a precise circle. The name _Jonathan Noble._

“Piercing or tattoo?” _Jonathan Noble_ says, after she’s been silent for too long. 

It’s funny—Rose isn’t normally an anxious person. She’s still in her early twenties, young and brash and careless by nature, and she’s _wanted_ to get this done for years now, ever since Keisha got hers. And he’s just a bloke like any other, even if he’s tall and tattooed and desperately hot. Not scary. But she has to take a breath and blow it out before answering. “I was thinking… a nose ring?” It comes out as a question, and the guy’s lips curl on one side.

“You don’t sound sure.”

She blinks. “I am sure.”

“All right.” He nods, taking her at her word, though she feels a flash of irritation that he hadn’t the _first_ time. Or had it been a joke? Gesturing down at the case, he interrupts her thoughts. “Come pick your stud, then.”

The rather obvious word association makes Rose blush. But she steps up to the counter and looks down at the glimmering studs. Some are simple—just plain metal, or with a single small stone. Some are larger, with multiple gems arranged in delicate starbursts, colorful flowers, tapered teardrops. They’re all gorgeous. But her eye is caught by a smaller piece of jewelry: a single stone, deep navy blue with tiny chips of light emerging from its facets, tiny seams of color, like a rainbow has been caught and scattered within it. It reminds her of the night sky, of the photos taken by long-range telescopes. She points down and says, confidently, “That one.”

She waits a long moment for him to prod her. To ask if she’s sure.

But when she looks back up, his lips are tilted up in a small smile. “Good choice.”

-

She comes back less than a month later.

“Hullo, Rose,” Jon greets. He catches sight of her the second she walks through the door, the little bell jangling behind her, and doesn’t look away. She brushes her shoes off on the welcome mat before stepping forward onto the Persian rug. “How’s the stud treating you?”

“Good!” She pushes her hands deeper into her pockets, fending off the residual winter chill. And her blush. She knows it’s just a more accurate word for “nose ring,” but bloody hell, does he have to _look like that_ while he says it? “Like it so much, I came back for more.”

“Yeah?” His eyes brighten, and she can’t help but wonder why he’s so nice to her when he has no reason to be. When, for all intents and purposes, he mostly seems like a giant grump. Or, like he wants people to _think_ he’s a giant grump. “What am I punching a hole in this time?”

“Gross.” Rose’s nose wrinkles at the unpleasant imagery, but she can’t help smiling anyway. “How about my navel?”

Jon leans forward, his elbows dropping to the display case, his long forearms stretching across the glass. She can make out a series of circles that look like planets, like the solar system, connected by dotted lines and flight paths. Are there little numbers along the lines? Measurements of distance? Before she knows it, she’s walking right up to the glass with the intent to examine his tattoos.

“You don’t sound sure,” he says seriously. She looks up, and his expression is wolfish.

Rose’s lips stretch wider. “I am sure.”

And she is.

-

Eight weeks later, she passes out on his piercing table.

When she comes to, the first thing to swim into view is Jon—his sharp cheekbones and his bright blue eyes. He’s shaking his head, looking mildly amused even if his pale face gives it away: he was worried. How long was she out?

“Told you it would hurt,” Jon chides, his arms crossed against his chest. She can make out the edge of Saturn’s rings up near his elbow and, beyond them, a trail of stardust. Around the planet, the sky is a hazy navy-black that reminds her of looking up from the roof of her old flat, on the estate. Where she’d almost been able to make out the speckle of stars on clear nights.

It takes a few moments for her to catch her breath and for her to stop gritting her teeth. It takes even longer for her to realize that one of her arms is stretched off of the table, taut—her fingers like claws, embedded in his muscular, denim-clad thigh. Which—she shouldn’t _know_ he has muscular thighs, obviously, because it’s totally inappropriate knowledge. Her eyes drift over, making note of it all: the black denim, the way her bloodless fingers grasp him. God, he must think she’s _mental._

It takes all her willpower to un-clench each individual finger and to let her hand drop away from him, her shaking muscles leaving the limb to hang.

“That was _awful_ ,” she clips out, half-laughing, half-groaning. She can feel the little metal stud move; she is _aware_ of it every time she takes a breath. Every inch of her exposed chest feels chilled except for one little pin-prick of blazing heat and pain that makes her want to _scream._

Jon chuckles. And then his eyes skim down her body in a professional, assessing sort of way that still makes a flush rise in the hollow of her throat, climbing up her neck. “Still want me to do the other one?”

Her face pales, the blood rushing away as fast as it had gathered, running from the prospect of more pain. Swallowing thickly, she grits out one word. “Yeah…”

“You don’t sound sure.”

Rose just glares at him as fiercely as she can, given the tear-tracks that must be running down her cheeks. She can feel her hair plastered to her forehead, and she’s _sure_ she looks as wrecked as she feels, but she holds his gaze, burning up at him until he breaks. His lips twist, and he reaches for the other clamp.

-

The first tattoo isn’t so bad after that.

-

It’s the height of summer when she pads out from behind the counter, the soles of her feet brushing over the soft, cozy carpet. It’s probably against some sort of sanitation code or something, for her to be wandering around a tattoo and piercing parlor in her bare feet. But she’s the only “client” Jon has today, and she knows he won’t mind. He never has before.

He’s just finishing cleaning up in the back room, actually, while she stretches her sore muscles. It had been a long session, and she’s a bit tender from where the needles had dug into her skin, over and over, turning her into a living canvas.

Her gaze—and shortly after, her feet—pull her toward the print that still hangs on the far wall. Simple, sharp shapes standing out against the bright white page. Her eyes trace over the familiar constellations. Andromeda, Aries… Canis Major. Stories told in such an ancient, human way—painted across a canvas, pictorials. Hieroglyphs. They’re beautiful, and they stir something inside her even now. Something shining.

She only feels him standing behind her when he leans close, his breath fanning over the back of her neck and kicking up gooseflesh. “How’s this one healing?” he asks, his hand brushing over her shoulder to push aside the curtain of her hair. His thumb is gentle as it traces the tattoo. He was the one to put the ink there, and she knows he is possessive of it in the same way that she is of him.

There is a reason she’d gotten that particular tattoo, after all. The shape of something like a wolf. Canis Major. She’d been drawn to it, to its fierceness.

“You’d know better than me, Doctor Ink,” she teases, tilting her head to the side. He huffs out a laugh and then, very softly, presses a kiss to her wolf-adorned shoulder. He touches her so gently, even in the places that aren’t still healing. It’s almost funny, how afraid he is of causing her pain when he’s been the source of so much of it, professionally speaking. But he’s a tender partner. Cautious and kind. It had taken him months to even accept her invitation to drinks.

She turns, lifting her arms and draping them around his neck while his own hands settle unconsciously at her hips, skimming carefully over the fresh tattoo on her left side. He doesn't forget for a moment the discomfort she's in, doesn't even want to cause a flinch. Her heart feels close to bursting.

Rose knows that beneath the collar of his t-shirt, there is a tattoo of a rose. It’s not new; it was there before she met him, but she likes it better for being his first tattoo. There's something almost fated about it. It’s still hers, in a way. She presses her cheek to his chest and breathes deep—breathes in the scent of the lemony antiseptic he uses on his tools, breathes in the scent of soap and his own deep skin smell that she can only identify as _Jon_ —before looking back up.

“Hey,” she says softly, pulling his eyes away from the art on the wall. They soften as he gazes down at her and she smiles, the words wavering in her chest. Swallowed up by an emotion she hadn’t expected. An ache. “I am… _so_ glad I met you.”

And Jon smiles. Properly, _honestly_ —he smiles, mischief sparkling in the depths of those aquamarine eyes. It’s an expression so bright and vivid that she’s still adjusting to seeing it on his face. “You don’t sound sure,” he replies.

Rolling her eyes, she pushes up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to his full lips. She is barely a breath away when she whispers, “I _am_ sure.”

And she is.


	41. Looking to the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Hey there, if you’re still accepting prompts The absolute cutest song ever which I used to associate with Peter Pan and Wendy but I was listening to it and thought it would be such an adorable Ten/Rose song! It’s called Ordinary Day by Vanessa Carlton and it’s just 💖💖"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

Rose Tyler was dreaming.

In the dream, she was flying. It wasn’t the body-work of mimicking fluttering wings, and it wasn’t the belly-dropping sensation of a plane taking off. There was no real _feeling_ to it at all, no external sense that she was in flight—she just knew, inexplicably and undeniably, that she was.

She gripped the edges of the console with both hands, knuckles bone white against the pale coral, like she was bracing for something big—something catastrophic. Beside her, a tall, thin man with _really_ great hair was laughing and doing something clever with _his_ hands, which were little more than a blur above the varying buttons and bits that, presumably, indicated lots of important flight-related things. He held on to nothing whatsoever, upright by his own force of will.

“Are you _sure_ we’ll be able to land?” Rose asked, eyeing the multiple flashing lights with a well-honed sense of suspicion. Not all of them were red, but some of them _were_ , and that was all she needed to know, really. _Everyone_ knew what flashing red lights meant.

The man’s narrow shoulders lifted in a shrug. “The TARDIS can land anywhere,” he said casually. Too casually. But Rose knew the difference between confidence and arrogance, and this seemed like the former. Something—she couldn’t say _what_ exactly—told her that she was safe, even now, as the ship started to buck and shiver around her, like a horse trying to throw off an unwanted rider.

“I know the _TARDIS_ can,” Rose called out over the sound of inhuman, not-quite-mechanical grinding and screeching. “But can _you?_ ”

The man, who had moved across the console, looked up at her wearing a smile, beatific and pearly white. And familiar.

So familiar…

Before she could make sense of it—the man, the ship, the danger they were undoubtedly in—she was thrown back by a rough jerk, so sudden and forceful that her grip was broken and her body flung back against the grated floor. 

The sensation of air, not just leaving, but _punching out_ of her lungs left her light-headed, her vision flickering—or was that the lights? What was wrong with the TARDIS? She felt like she’d been struck at a million miles an hour, leaving her mind stunned and body limp. 

“Rose!”

The ship gave a final shudder before falling still. They’d landed.

And then, blessedly, she breathed. 

Her chest heaved, gasping desperately for precious air, and clarity returned to her quickly. She let herself recover for only a few seconds before starting to sit up, wincing at the pain that lanced through her back. But she didn’t want the man to worry—and he _would_ worry. He’d sounded worried already, just saying her name.

“Doctor,” she coughed out.

“Rose? Are you all right?” She heard footsteps, and then saw his legs racing around the console toward her, long and pinstriped. “I did it! We landed!” His worry turned to dazzling euphoria, and then dipped back into anxiety almost immediately, as if he couldn’t decide which was the predominant feeling. “Are you hurt? Did you _hear_ that crunching noise? I threaded a time loop—can you believe? Rubbed _right_ up against it, but didn’t get caught. I haven’t done that in _years!_ Let me help you up, you look a bit peaky. Is your head all right? Let me see your pupils,” and then he caught her chin in his hands, cradling her face with the same long, clever fingers that had whipped the ship into a frenzy of flight. They felt cool and dry and calming.

“I—I’m fine,” Rose insisted weakly, looking the Doctor straight in the eye. His irises were brown and wide, sort of manic, and she could see the whites all round. They looked, not so much at her as into her, as if checking for damage that might hide beneath the surface, where only he could see. “I’m fine,” she repeated, her hand coming up to clasp his wrist.

Her chest still ached from the effort of breathing, but it was the truth. She felt fine. She felt—

Rose laughed.

She felt like _dancing._

“You,” she announced brightly, her voice finally more than just a croak, “are a _rubbish_ pilot!” And then she pulled back her hand and smacked him with it, right on the shoulder, from which he playfully winced away.

“I’m an _excellent_ pilot!” He insisted, trying to sound serious and failing utterly. Finding her to be hale and whole, the Doctor pulled his hands away from her jaw and bounced back to the console where, if it was even possible, _more_ lights were flashing. Mostly red at this point. And a few mauve. He looked so bloody pleased with himself that she felt it her moral _duty_ to take him down a peg.

“Excellent at nearly getting us killed, maybe!”

“Yes,” he crowed, “with ‘ _nearly_ ’ being the operative word, Rose Tyler! That was totally intentional!”

When she laughed again, all the tightness in her chest released. “You’re full of it.”

“Full of wit, charm, and brilliant ideas,” he chimed back. “Not to mention, _devilishly_ good-looking! And,” he said, with an air of finality, “for the last time, I’m a _brilliant_ pilo—”

Suddenly, the world shifted. That is, the ship—it moved. Was being moved. Not by the Doctor, whose face went suddenly slack with confusion. Rose’s body didn’t get the memo, tripping over itself in an attempt to keep balance, though that was largely impossible, given that the floor beneath her _wouldn’t stop moving._

“Doctor!” She cried out on reflex, her legs collapsing beneath her while the world tumbled like a washing machine drum.

There was the sound of a cloister bell ringing.

“Rose!” One small, still-functioning part of her brain noticed the real terror in his voice. “Hang on!” 

For a moment, she thought she might be able to catch hold of a railing. She was sliding right toward one, the ship tilting her in an accommodating sort of way, albeit with more force than she’d like. Her fingers reached, stretched—

Missed. 

And then she was falling. To the floor? The ceiling? It didn’t much matter, only she was careening toward it. She felt the sensation of weightlessness, of falling. 

Now _this,_ she thought absently, felt like flying. 

Her stomach soared, and dropped, and she heard rather than felt the dull _crunch_ of impact.

And then, nothing.

-

Rose woke up, first a bit at a time, and then all at once, resurfacing through her druggy haze to blink at the bright fluorescent lights.

The air around her smelled sharp and antiseptic, the beeping of a heart monitor the first sound she could make out. She wasn’t on the ship anymore—where was she? A hospital?

“Rose!”

She tried to tilt her head to the side, toward the sound of his voice, but the action twinged. Pain sang over her nerve endings, and she winced, only that tiny motion hurt just as much. Air hissed out through her teeth, and she closed her eyes against the urge to tense up again.

“Rose,” came the voice, closer this time. “You’re awake! Don’t try to move, I’m here...” When she batted her eyelids open, he _was_ there—hovering overhead, framed by a sickly, off-white glow. But it was him, plain as anything. Same messy, sticky-uppy hair. No suit, though. 

He wore a denim jacket and a loose jumper underneath. Had that bit—the suit, the ship—been a dream?

“Hey,” she croaked. “You look like hell.” He did; he had deep bags under his eyes, and a few days worth of stubble on his chin. But at the sound of her voice, his whole face crinkled up in joy, his eyebrows pulling together and his smile glinting like the sun. He seemed so pleased to see her that it made her heart, buried as it was by bandages, beat faster.

“Well, you look beautiful,” he asserted, beaming down at her.

Rose stopped herself rolling her eyes, but only just. “You’re full of it.”

The words echoed somewhere in the back of her head, like she’d heard them before. Or said them before. The memory of when or why slid away, backwards into the distant fog of her dreams, replaced by the sensation of falling—a plane, crashing toward the earth. They’d been chasing a storm, her and John. That was what they did. They ran, and they flew, and they saved people.

Memory started to fill in the gaps, and tears gathered in her eyes. She’d almost _died_. And if he hadn’t—

 _No._ She turned her attention away from the scene of careening out of the sky, determined to focus on _right now_ , on being alive and mostly okay. On living to see another day. And on John’s face, his expressions that were vacillating between tenderness and guilt, joy and fear, unsure of what to feel first and how to feel it. Fondness rushed up in her like a fountain for the man she’d chosen, over and over again, to run away with.

“You’re okay?” She questioned, her arm—which felt heavy and numb—lifting up just slightly, her fingers stretching out toward him. He clasped them immediately in his larger ones, the touch gentle and cautious. Like he wasn’t sure it would be welcome.

“Not a scratch on me,” he admitted.

Once again, she refrained from rolling her eyes. “You’re a rubbish pilot.”

“I’m an _excellent_ pilot!” He protested, but there wasn’t much energy in the words; it seemed he was simply answering by rote. The guilt clouding his face told her all she needed to know.

“No idea how you got your license,” she teased, flexing her fingers in his. She still couldn’t quite manage a squeeze, so it would have to do. “ _Or_ how you talked me into flying with you.” 

That wasn’t true. She could remember that day so clearly—just an ordinary day, like any other. Only he’d looked down at her with those searching eyes and said, “Where do you wanna go?”

And she’d said, “Everywhere.”

It was still true.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his head bowing low. Low enough that she could smell his shampoo and the scent of his skin, salt and smoke. He hadn’t showered since the crash. She pulled her hand away from his and slowly lifted it up, letting her fingers sink into his hair. She felt some of the tension seep away, his shoulders drooping, his whole body dropping into a crouch beside the hospital bed. “Rose, I thought you were—”

“I’m okay,” she shushed him. “You know I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” And then, though her core muscles strained and stretched, she lifted herself up on one arm and pressed a kiss into his hair. She whispered, “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Two large hands reached for her, curled around her body and tucked her close. His denim jacket chafed her cheek. And though she ached, it was a good ache this time.


	42. Like water in your hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Saecookie (ILY!!)  
> Prompt: "Anything along the part of (breaking up) /getting back together. I'm going with the Rose/Doctor trend because I'm full of Subwave Network feelings but really, any Doctor? Canon ou Human AU ? There's just something about two people loving each other so bad but still going their separate ways and then coming back together..."  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose

-

_1994._

-

The last week of camp was always the hardest. This year, it was less because the kids were getting impatient to get home, or because the nights felt both endless and fleeting as the flickering of a firefly. It wasn’t even because she was, _as per usual_ , running critically low on knickers by this point. No, the whole problem could be summed up in one word—a name, actually: James.

It was easy to paint a picture, both metaphorically _and_ literally; she could probably draw him with her eyes closed by now. The new counselor was tall in that way that left him perpetually ducking at doorways, making her feel small and delicate like she hadn’t felt in years—not since before she’d gotten too big to be picked up anymore. And he was thin. Lanky, even, his shoulders bearing no more than a suggestion of what would eventually become bulk. He wore his hair cropped close, a sort of militaristic look that he apparently only kept during the summer, when he was too hot to be arsed with a proper hairstyle. Which, of course, did him no favors in regards to his rather large ears. Not that Rose minded. She liked them.

She would never—not in a _thousand_ years—tell him that, obviously.

He had a prominent nose. Long and straight, and it bumped into her cheek when he kissed her. Tortoiseshell glasses that did the same, unless he remembered to take them off. And beneath the frames, he had the bluest eyes, as sharp and intelligent as they were lovely, little twin reflections of the summer sky overhead. When he smiled—lopsided, left corner higher than right—his eyes crinkled up at the edges like the folded pages of a book, and it made him look older than he was, but younger, too.

And she liked that. She liked lots of things about him. His hands when he played the guitar, and his rough but obvious kindness toward the little kids and other counselors. The way he had to bend down to kiss her—his gravelly accent that sounded so different from her own—the fact he didn’t laugh very much, but when he did, the sound _possessed_ him and made his shoulders shake. The way he teased her, and made her stomach do all sorts of things that shouldn’t be anatomically possible, just by _looking_ at her. 

She just liked him. She just—Rose frowned, ballpoint pen halfway through a stroke—liked him _a lot._

And in three-and-a-half days, he’d be gone.

Bound for Manchester while she headed back to London. Bound for uni while she still had two entire _years_ before taking her A-levels. 

It was her own fault, really. She’d been the one who couldn’t make up her own mind, waffling about which subjects she wanted to study. The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted to _do_ with her life. And it was only because of him that she had an idea.

Sort of. More than before, anyway.

If he hadn’t taken an interest in her sketches, asked her about how she’d gotten into art, she might have continued on like before. Aimless. And, okay, she _maybe_ would have come to a similar conclusion sooner or later, but he’d cared enough to ask. He’d encouraged her. He’d seemed… _impressed_ by her drawings, by the watercolor paintings she’d thumb-tacked to the cabin wall, to her eye for color and light.

Nobody had ever been impressed by her before—not that she knew of.

Was that really all it had taken? Just a little faith from an almost-stranger, and she felt like a new person.

But now that she had a direction, a trajectory, it was leading her decidedly away from him. There were no other routes: going home and studying hard— _no distractions_ —and getting into a good university was the right thing to do, even if her heart rebelled at the idea of leaving all this behind, of leaving James and his hands and his mouth and his smile and his laugh behind, to become no more than a hazy summer memory.

She tapped the nib of her pen against the page, chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to come up with an easy solution; she had to be missing something. The flat didn’t have dial-up, so they couldn’t keep in contact that way. And her mum would be suspicious if she suddenly started hogging the landline and getting random calls from boys. _If_ he’d even want to call her.

If he even wanted to hear from her again, ever.

It made her slightly sick to consider. Did he _want_ to keep in touch? Or was she just a summer fling, something best kept behind at camp?

A shadow slipped over her and she knew it was him, the air instantly cooling from where he blocked the sun. “What are you working on?” She felt him crouch behind her, his chin just hovering over her shoulder—close enough that she could smell the hint of sunblock and sweat, a touch of freshwater sweetness from the lake, and something clean, like laundry airing dry. His frames were present in her peripheral vision, shining in the late afternoon light.

“Nothing,” Rose answered truthfully, glancing down at her hasty sketch of one of the cabins. Her lines were messy and distracted, much like the inside of her head, and not particularly nice to look at. Reflexively, she started to crumple the paper out of her sketchbook, but James dropped a hand over hers.

“Wait, don’t. It’s good.”

She scoffed. “It’s ugly, actually.”

“It’s… honest,” he decided, swiping the page up before she could destroy it, folding the thin paper into squares and shoving it into his trouser pocket as he stood. “I like it.” She looked back over her shoulder, shielding her eyes from the sun, and glared.

“All the sketches I’ve done this summer, all the paintings, and _this_ is the piece you want?”

James raised a brow, looking down at her in a way that might have been imperious, if he weren’t wearing an oversized, tie-dye t-shirt with the camp logo emblazoned on the front. “Are you _offering?_ ”

Rose’s eyes narrowed in response, knowing that he was digging for something. “Which one did you want?”

“The self-portrait you did,” he answered immediately, “after we—”

“Shh!” She felt her cheeks flush with heat and averted her eyes on instinct, too mortified to even reply. They both knew what he’d been about to say, and she was suddenly grateful that most of the kids were in the mess on the other side of camp. “Not that one. That’s…”

“Private?” He smirked.

“God, you’re unbearable.” She tried to blink away the image building behind her eyes, the memory from just a few short days ago, but it was so strong and present—almost like she was seeing it from the outside. 

James, his back against the twin headboard, skin scorching through his thin t-shirt and into her bare skin, where the straps of her camisole had slid down her shoulders. Her back to his chest and his arms around her ribs. His lips pressed against her neck while she absently sketched, something slow and easy still sliding through her veins. Contentment. The sort of unconditional acceptance she’d never felt from a bloke before, but couldn’t help feeling now.

Her head had been so pleasantly preoccupied that her hand took over, loosely drawing what her eyes couldn’t see. What she imagined they looked like: her own chest and shoulders and chin; James’s lips against her throat, and his glasses, sliding down his nose. He’d teased her later, when he saw the words looped down at the bottom in an absentminded rush.

_Self Portrait, With James. Summer 1994._

“You like it,” James teased, reaching out his hand to pull her upright. She couldn't deny that he was right—she did like just about every irritating bone in his body—but she _did_ roll her eyes while his fingers wiggled in front of her face, long and tan and tempting. When she didn’t answer, he tried another tack. “Had dinner yet?” 

Rose shook her head, not knowing how to say she’d been too busy thinking about… well, _him._ Them. The future that made her sick to her stomach. She swallowed. 

“C’mon, then. Can’t have you wasting away.” And he grinned his bright, crooked grin, familiar in a way she suspected she’d remember all her life. No matter how far away she got from this summer, from camp, from him, she’d never forget it.

She took his hand—big enough to dwarf hers, with callouses on the pads—and followed him across the grass, trying to stop herself from committing it all to memory. And knowing she would anyway.

-

_1996._

-

It was raining on her tour date, which she felt distinctly to be some sort of omen—good or bad, she couldn’t decide. She liked rain, usually. It made things feel more abstract, like something out of an impressionist painting, and it tended to keep people off the streets, leaving them wide open for exploring. She had ventured out with her sketchbook in search of rainy day adventure more than once. But today, she didn't want to get wet, and her hair was already rebelling against the humidity.

_And_ she'd forgotten an umbrella.

“Shit,” she mumbled, jogging into the relative shelter of the overhang, trying to protect her hair and her portfolio at the same time. Her entire hope for academic success was presently pressed against her chest, and the thought of her sketches and paintings—carefully analyzed by her art teacher and herself, selected and matted, representing the best of her work—destroyed by the rain was enough to make her cringe deeper into the recesses of grim, Gothic architecture.

For a moment, she thought it might be the right academic building—she’d made it to campus, that much she could tell—but a quick glance up revealed a plaque telling otherwise. This was _not_ the Centre for Fine Arts.

“ _Shit,_ ” she repeated, grinding the heel of one hand against her eyes. Light and color blossomed beneath her lids, shades of pressure and frustration.

She was going to be late. She was going to miss her tour of the building. She wasn’t going to get the chance to see the classrooms, or chat with any of the professors, and she sure as _hell_ wasn’t going to make her formal interview. Rose felt a tightness—unmistakable worry—gather in her chest even as her hand pressed harder and harder, flattening her portfolio against her body. This was her one chance, she reminded herself, and she was _bollocksing_ it all up with her lack of preparation. She shouldn’t have trusted her own compass; she should have brought a map and risked looking foolish.

It was just like everyone said: she wasn’t cut out for this, for going to university and trying to make something of herself. She wasn’t.

For a brief, irrational moment, she felt absolutely furious that she’d ever let herself be talked into this—into even _aspiring_ for more, let alone actually trying to make “more” happen. The whole thing had been _his_ idea, the wanker. She might’ve been content serving chips. She _liked_ chips. She did _not_ like feeling how she felt now. Exposed and idiotic.

This was absurd, of course, because she hadn’t seen him in two years, not since the bus dropped the counselors off at the train station and he hadn’t kissed her goodbye. And all the effort she’d put into this—sitting her A-levels and applying for schools and volunteering at the community center, spending her summers teaching arts classes instead of going back to camp—had been wholly her own. James hadn’t had much to do with it, except maybe being in the right place at the right time. And believing in her.

She couldn’t help remembering that. Someone had _believed_ in her.

Even if it hadn’t lasted.

Rose reached deep inside herself for something resembling assurance, struggling to calm her breathing as her mind ran circles around her. Everything felt sort of detached, except for the panic pounding in her chest. But then she took a slow rush of air. In and out. Another. For a moment, she tried to focus only on her immediate sensations—what she could touch and hear and smell—the cool stone against her back, the sound of the rain, slashed by traffic noise and tires splashing through puddles, the smell of mildew and exhaust and rainwater and the perfume she’d put on because today was special. There was nothing else. Just those things, safe and certain.

Her head began to clear.

First, she assessed reasonably, she needed to check her drawings, make sure her portfolio—if the makeshift cardboard and twine could be called such—hadn’t leaked. If it had, it wasn’t worth worrying about anything else. And then she needed to get her bearings—ideally, she needed to find a bloody street sign. She was somewhere she hadn’t been before, somewhere in the bounds of an unfamiliar campus, but it was still London. Still her city. 

And if she was as lost as she imagined, she would ask for help. She would just _ask somebody._

She inhaled slowly, letting the familiar smells and sounds settle her mind. The hand against her face kept up its steady pressure. And right when she thought she might be brave enough to open her eyes again and face the world—

“Rose?”

The whole world—everything, every priority she’d just rearranged into some semblance of a proper order—disappeared, wiping her mind abruptly blank.

“Oh, brilliant,” Rose blurted out. “This is all your fault.”

She said it before her eyes even opened, before she could calm her heart that was, once again, racing. 

And she regretted it _immediately_ upon seeing him.

James. The absolute _bastard_. He was standing right there in front of her, wearing a too-large leather jacket and a smirk as smug as anything she’d ever seen. Like an apparition summoned from her stupid subconscious, he was in London and right in front of her, appearing at the exact moment she’d been thinking of him. How was that possible? She blinked up at him—had he grown taller? No, probably not. Just sort of… broader. His hair was longer. His eyes were… bluer? Or was that just the rain, turning the world cool and grey around him?

She realized she was staring—not staring, actually, but _glaring_ —right about the time that his smirk, still higher on the left side, started to fade, turning to an expression of dismay.

“It’s my fault you’re crying in the rain?”

“I’m not _crying_ ,” she snapped. “I’m thinking.”

“My fault you’re _thinking?_ Well, that’s sort of flattering”

“Oh my God, you’re still unbearable,” she groaned.

He stepped closer, his damp hair falling in loose waves around his face. Little droplets of water clung to his glasses. He must have just come out from the rain, she realized numbly. “You still like it,” he chimed back, the response so automatic that she could almost forget that any time had passed at all. She could almost imagine that they were both exactly the same as before, standing in sun-warm grass with her back against a tree.

Only she couldn’t. Because she was going to be late.

That, and he seemed just as surprised as she was by his instantaneous response, catching his arm before it could lift to cage her against the wall. He blinked—once, forcefully.

Her voice came out weak, swallowed by the rain. “You’ve got no idea what I like.”

And James just nodded; the familiar glint left his eyes, like the sun receding behind a cloud. She might have felt bad about it, if given half the chance. But she didn’t give herself even a moment to consider it, steeling herself with the memory of him turning his back on the train platform, his shoulders so set, so determined _._ She reminded herself that there was a _reason_ she was out in the rain today, holding a fistful of paintings to her body, and he wasn’t that reason. _She_ was.

“You’re a student here,” she guessed.

He seemed flustered by the easy assertion. “Yeah. Med student. Second year.” His gaze slid away from hers, and she was stung by realization that he’d been _so close_ this entire time, for two whole years, while she’d been studiously trying to forget him. To forget the way it had ended without either of them saying a word. To re-learn the confidence he’d instilled in her. 

Had he not even attempted to find her? Surely he’d remembered that she lived in London, a few scant miles from his university. 

James must have been aware of her thoughts, or having similar ones, because his face looked pained and tight.

“That’s great,” she said faintly, still at a loss. It was; it was exactly what he’d wanted to do with his life. Granted, she hadn’t expected him to do it in London. “But I actually need your help. I’ve got an interview in—I don’t know— _soon_ , and I’ve got… I’ve got to find the Centre for Fine Arts.” Now it was her turn to avoid his eyes. Did he remember? Would he even care?

_I’ve done it,_ she wanted to say. _I’m doing it right now. What we talked about._

From the corner of her eye, she saw his lips curve into a shadow of his familiar grin. “I don’t go there much, I’ll admit, but I know where it is.” And his hand stretched out—almost like he was going to grab hers, tug her along behind him like he used to—but he shoved his fist back in the pocket of his leather jacket only a second later. “C’mon, then.” He turned, expecting her to follow.

She did. Of course she did.

“Wait, could you—do you mind—”

James tilted his head, listening.

“Could you put my portfolio under your jacket? I don’t want the… watercolors to get wet and reactivate. It’ll ruin the paintings.” She hated the way her voice wobbled when she acknowledged what she was holding, as if she was afraid he might ask about her art. Had he kept her sketch of the cabin? 

But he didn’t ask; he took the thin cardboard from her hands and tucked it into his jacket, pulling the lapels closed over his chest to protect her work from the rain.

“Good?” he asked, his eyes sliding up to meet hers. They were so much more intent than she remembered. Focused.

Rose just nodded, throat thick. Why was this so hard?

After only a second, he stepped out into the rain.

They walked for a few moments in silence, letting it stack up like bricks between them, building a wall that was already starting to feel impenetrable. With each step, her damp shoes kicked up water that chilled the backs of her bare legs. She was scrambling for something—anything—to say when James cleared his throat, said, “So, you’re still… doing the art thing, then.” It was vague, but undeniable. He sounded pleased.

Rose blushed. “Yeah. Fine Art and Design.”

“That’s… good,” he offered. “You were always brilliant at it.”

“I think you’re biased.” It was the wrong thing to say, but she couldn’t stop the words coming out of her mouth.

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

She couldn’t tell whether his reply made her feel better or worse. Maybe a bit of both. She bit down on her bottom lip, straining against the urge to ask him any of the innumerable questions suddenly swirling in her head: Had he missed her? Why wasn’t he at University of Manchester, like he’d planned? Why was he wearing a leather jacket in the middle of August?

When had his posture gotten so straight, like he owned the ground beneath his feet? He didn’t seem to be at war with his own body anymore, and something in her warmed at the thought.

He interrupted her musing—and her stare—with a sudden glance her way. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she rushed out. And then she admitted, “you just… look different.”

“Probably the hair. Haven’t shaved it in a few—”

Rose shook her head, still shooting glances his way as they stopped at a crossing. “No, it’s not your hair.”

“I mean, it _has_ been two years, Rose—”

I know,” she interrupted. “You look good. Different, but good. Lighter, maybe?”

James stopped mid-step, and she had to reach out and tug him forcibly across the intersection. On the other side of the road, he dipped his chin, pressing his lips flat together. It looked like he was trying to hide his face—or hide a smile. “You’re spooky, you know that? Always asking the right questions.”

Well, she certainly had more where that came from. “New girlfriend?” Rose was guessing, but she was pleased to see his eyes jump to hers, his shoulders shaking with a repressed laugh. “Or no girlfriend? Either one could be something to smile about.” She arched a brow, pleased to feel some of her confidence returning. She’d caught him off guard, and she liked it.

“No girlfriend. It’s just, ah—I sort of went against my parents, going to school here. They didn’t want me to move to London.”

“And you’re glad you did?” 

Once again, he pinned her with a flash of blue. “You could say that.”

She realized, with heat and awareness churning though her chest and up into her cheeks, that she was still holding his hand. Her fingers twitched automatically, but before she could break the contact—and, oh God, he still had the same callouses from guitar strings—his own fingers tightened around hers. They were so warm, even in the clammy rain.

“Rose,” he began, a steady and sticky _something_ building in his eyes; she couldn’t look away.

But she knew she had to break the spell, because if he acted on that something—something like confessing his love on a street corner in the rain—she’d go absolutely mental, and then she’d _definitely_ miss her interview. The tour had probably come and gone by now, but there was still a chance… 

“Are we almost there?” She asked impatiently. “I can’t miss this interview—I had to borrow money for bus fare—”

“ _Rose_ ,” he repeated, sighing. “Art building’s just over there. On the right.”

“Oh.” She turned in the direction he was looking, and sure enough, she could see the proper signage, but he _still_ didn’t let go of her hand. She spun back, ready to say something, anything—

Why was her stomach churning? Why had she gotten so _scared_ all of the sudden?

Would he disappear when she let go? If he turned around and walked away now, would she spend the _next_ two years trying to forget the feel of his hand on hers? Her thoughts spun and spiraled, a yawning horror opening in her that made her want to run. Get it over with. “Well, thanks for—”

“Rose.” 

He squeezed her fingers, just gently, enough to make her pulse throb. Like a question mark at the end of a sentence left unsaid.

She sucked in a breath and pushed it out. “Yes, James.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

“Don’t forget your paintings,” he said softly, pulling one hand from his coat, and with it, her portfolio. Raindrops immediately began to soak into the cardboard and she pulled it tightly to her chest with one arm—it was still warm from his body. She thought she could even detect a whiff of something—clean laundry. It felt like falling backwards in time, and her heart skipped another beat.

He couldn’t seem to let go of her. And it was sort of a relief; his touch felt like Rose’s only tether to reality. 

“You’ll blow them away,” he said, sounding assured like he always did.

Rose nodded. And then, surprising herself, she said, “I’m glad you found me today. I was just thinking…” But she wasn’t quite brave enough for that. _I was just thinking about you._

“Yeah,” he agreed with what she hadn’t said, throat bobbing with uncharacteristic anxiety. “Me too. And I’m not waiting until it happens again. I’ll just wait until you’re done, and then we can—I mean, if you want—we could get chips. Celebrate what will _definitely_ be a successful interview. And I can… explain.”

“Explain,” she repeated hesitantly.

James shifted his weight. His hand suddenly felt heavy in hers. “Why I spent two whole years not calling the girl of my dreams, even after… following her to London.”

The words spilled over her like rainwater, sending a shiver down her spine. He had known. He’d known all along. He’d thought of her. He’d _missed_ her. She felt the smile overtaking her lips and didn’t even want to stop it. But she barely gave the pleasant feelings time to root before she determinedly tugged her hand out of his, determined to keep her priorities in order.

She had to do this; she wasn’t here for him. She was here to get into uni, because _she_ wanted to. And yes, this was an unbelievable twist of fate and completely impossible and he just _looked so ridiculously good_ that not drawing him was a crime. But she was going to be late.

“Okay,” she agreed quickly, noticing the way the hopeful expression was draining away from his face. “But don’t wait in the rain. That jacket is ridiculous. I mean, I like it—but it’s ridiculous. You’ll be soaked.”

It was unbelievable, the gymnastics her heart did when his face flooded with happiness. It wasn’t even a proper smile; it was something else, something in his eyes that felt like the rain letting up, a warm ray of sunshine on her skin. He nodded eagerly. “Okay. I’ll wait in the lobby.”

“And if this interview goes to hell—”

“It won’t.”

“If it _does,_ I don’t want to hear a word about it. Understand?”

He nodded, a grin finally stretching his cheeks. He still had the silliest smile. And it still made her stomach do weird, anatomically-impossible flip-flops. It reminded her of mud-slinging afternoons and lake water and everything good and bright in the world.

“Right.” She said, forcefully interrupting her own train of thought before it could spiral out of control. “I’ve got to go, yeah? I’ll be late.”

“Right,” he echoed, nodding again. More seriously this time. He pushed his glasses up his nose with one long finger. “Don’t want that.”

“Nope.” Her voice was faint in her own ears. “Definitely not.” Her heart beat like a kettle drum, rebounding through her whole body with a rhythm she couldn’t recognize. She felt herself leaning forward and was briefly horrified by what she was about to do.

She was about to do something ridiculous, like confess her love on a street corner in the rain.

Or maybe not exactly that.

Rose pushed up onto her tiptoes before she could think better of it, brushing a kiss over his lips, rain-cool and just as quick. She could feel his smile under her mouth, and the way his lips suddenly shifted to accommodate hers, coaxed into an old familiar shape. But before he could reach out—before she could do something stupid like drop her portfolio and climb him like that tall tree at the center of the campground—she drew back, already flushing madly. 

“Bye,” she whispered.

He laughed—threw his head back, shoulders shaking. And then he answered, “Bye, Rose.”

She had just enough time to take in the pleased glimmer in his eye—embed it into her memory, so it could carry her through the interview—before she spun on her heel, taking off in the direction of the Centre for Fine Arts. Rose smiled so hard her cheeks ached.

She had an interview to ace.


	43. I must begin and never bring to end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "tenrose bed sharing trope + resolved tension 😳"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose
> 
> the title is taken from an edmund spenser poem, sonnet xxiii.
> 
> please note that there is a less explicit version of this prompt fill on my tumblr, if you'd prefer. alternately, you can simply stop at the line "never again," as that is where i initially intended to end the story and where it ends on tumblr.

He knocked on the door before entering; it seemed, after all, like the polite thing to do, and everyone in this time period was enormously polite—almost absurdly so. Rose seemed to find the bowing and scraping and two-faced flattery equal parts fascinating and frustrating, doing her best to play along. The least he could do was reciprocate.

For now, anyway.

Namely because a bit of stiff upper lip and classic English repression would help him through the awkwardness of spending the night with Rose, who he had introduced as his wife. _Again._

He did that a lot, actually. Sometimes by accident. Certainly more often than was strictly necessary. It was an easy way, in most circumstances, to guarantee that they wouldn't be separated, and he took the concept of "safety in numbers" quite seriously when it came to unfamiliar cultures. Having a hand to hold, having someone to watch your back was of the utmost importance. And that meant presenting a unified front.

And nothing said "unified"—to humans, anyway—more than the concept of marriage.

So.

"I am Doctor Smith," he'd said unflinchingly. "And this is my wife."

Only he'd forgotten all the nonsense that went on in late eighteenth century England, and their so-called relationship hadn't saved them. They'd been split up almost from the moment they arrived, ostensibly seeking shelter from the storm: the ladies whisked Rose away to be properly dried off and dressed, and the men were left to play billiards, which he was _rubbish_ at—though, that was only because there were so many bloody sets of rules throughout the evolution of the game that he never remembered exactly which ones applied when. Both in the sense of linear time, and in the course of the game.

If they'd at least gone shooting, he might have been able to explore the grounds, take some readings, dismantle a few firearms, maybe even make out what was causing the temporal storm that had grounded them, putting the TARDIS on a sharp and sudden lockdown.

But no, he was left inside to knock balls about.

And billiards was the least of it; after being kept apart all afternoon and then separately dressed for dinner, he and Rose had been herded into a massive, poorly-lit room and sat halfway across the acre-wide dining table from one another, only to part _again_ after supper. And he'd had to pretend to like cigars.

He _hated_ cigars—nasty, smelly things.

The Regency period was _not_ all it was cracked up to be, as far as he was concerned, Rose’s beloved period dramas be damned.

When he finally escaped from the after-dinner niceties, he was informed that "Mrs. Smith" had already retired for the evening, claiming a headache. Relief had risen in him with each step taken toward their guest quarters, though he didn't like to consider why—why adventures weren't quite so satisfying when they had to sit apart from each other and exchange small looks and arched brows instead of their real, actual thoughts. Why questioning people wasn't quite as much fun alone. He was, in his heart, a vain creature with a taste for performance, and Rose was his most appreciative audience.

And obviously, it was frustrating not to be able to touch her. Or be touched by her. Or to at least linger close to her in that particular, near-touching way they had.

Coupled with the fact that Rose surely would have noticed something by now—probably something essential, something he had missed—because she was brilliant like that, he was not at all well pleased.

If it weren't for all these ridiculous rules, he griped to himself as he approached the door, they might have worked out what was grounding the TARDIS by now. They could be sitting in the media room, watching a film and… well, snuggling. Sort of. They didn't _exactly_ snuggle in the traditional sense, but they also didn't _not_ do that. It was more of a mutual, everyday, undiscussed touching _thing_.

Still, despite his impatience to burst into their assigned bedroom—and tear off this bloody cravat _as soon as_ ; he hadn't fancied this style in a few bodies and he _loathed_ it now—the Doctor knocked, and he waited.

Only a few seconds later, a maid came and answered the door. She was a surprisingly tall, solid-looking woman with laughing eyes and a suppressed lift at the corner of her lips. He recognized her as having bustled him out of the room earlier so she could help Rose dress for dinner, _despite_ his protests about his companion looking perfectly fine as she was. His complaints had fallen on unsympathetic ears and then he'd been shuffled off into his own sartorial nightmare, resenting the woman all the while.

But from the look on the maid's face now, and from what he knew of Rose, the pair were probably getting on swimmingly.

"Good evening, sir," the woman said, bobbing a curtsy before stepping aside. "The missus is just getting ready for bed."

Before he could stop himself, his eyes tracked across the room and landed on "the missus" he'd so been wanting to speak to all night. Rose stood across the room at the foot of the bed, fingers wrapped around one of the posts, with her short corset just coming undone and a cheeky grin on her lips—which explained the happy housemaid. His suspicions were confirmed: they must have been having quite the chat. Rose always knew how to make people laugh.

But for all the sparkling life in her eyes, Rose _did_ look a bit pale. A headache would have been a more than credible excuse. Her usual pink-cheeked glow was utterly absent, leaving behind a vague appearance of exhaustion that trumped her efforts at liveliness. What's more, her hair was mussed and damp, and the white chemise that she'd borrowed was wet and flecked with mud.

The Doctor immediately crossed the room to take a closer look at her. "Are you all right?" he asked, his fingers sliding under her chin to lift her face. Her whole body turned with the touch, one hand dropping away from the bedpost and the other rising to hold up her ridiculous underthings.

Her pupils were rather dilated—not unusual, given the low light of the candles and the wine served with dinner. But her sallow complexion and clammy skin couldn't be so easily explained, and she smelled like rain-soaked earth and lightning. "Rose, did you—"

She shook her head, just once, her smile stretching wider and her eyes darting over his shoulder. "I knew it was just a matter of time before you showed up, worrying about me." Her free hand lifted, cupping his fingers where they cradled her cheek. Her palm was soft and cool, and yet the contact sparked against his skin. He swallowed. "I'm fine," she said firmly. "Just tired, and I got… turned around on my way to our room."

_Our room._ Her expression was teasing, but fond, too—it drew a strange sensation out from underneath his ribcage which ricocheted around his body and left behind a gasping emptiness, a yearning that only eased where her hand touched his. Her cheek began to warm under his touch, and he felt his own body temperature rise in sympathy.

Catching himself, he dropped his hand away, and Rose’s fell as well. The absence was immediate: there was a cold vacuum against his right palm. His skin felt over-sensitized, but perhaps it was just the electrical storm outside.

Probably not, but _perhaps._

"Right," he nodded. "Well, I'll leave you to finish your—"

"Don't bother," she interrupted before glancing over his shoulder and flashing another smile. He'd almost forgotten that the maid was still there until Rose addressed her. "Harriet, thank you—you can go. Doctor Smith will handle the rest."

"As you like, ma'am," replied the maid— _Harriet_ , he'd have to try to remember that one, especially if Rose thought she knew something, and why did the maid sound so smug?—and then she left, the door thudding gently behind her.

_Finally we can talk properly._ Once again, relief began to steal over him, quick and quiet, rising with every moment spent in her airspace. He felt his own heart rate slow, trying to match hers. Not an unusual effect when they were alone: it helped him settle a bit.

He'd been keenly aware of their separation for hours—bored of the insipid conversation and everyone else's lack of interest in the storm outside—but Rose, it seemed, was more preoccupied with getting out of her period-appropriate getup than reconvening. Turning her back, one hand grasped the bedpost again, and then she glanced up over her shoulder in a wordless request.

She wanted him to untie the rest of her laces.

The pale strips of periwinkle ribbon hung invitingly, fluttering with each breath she took, as did the bodice, which spilled open at the top like the thumbed-through pages of a book. There was something oddly intimate in the carelessness, in the loosened corset and bone-white, clinging chemise, even though the pale layers were almost _more_ modest than her usual clothing.

His hands hovered, hesitated before landing on the laces.

"Sorry about cutting you off," Rose began immediately, "I just didn't want the maid to catch on—you know, that we're not…"

_Together._

"—from here."

"Ah."

The unspoken word— _together_ —circled his thoughts as she shifted from foot to foot, waiting for him to begin. His answering tug on the laces wasn't gentle, but yielded immediate results: her next breath was deep, like a gulp of air after a long time underwater. Under the cravat, his throat ached with the desire to do the same.

For one fleeting, _stupid_ moment, he imagined her gentle fingers unwinding the fabric from around his neck. He imagined taking a deep breath, sucking in air scented like Rose's skin, which often smelled mystifyingly—and mouth-wateringly—of honeysuckle.

The thought was ridiculous. It was… not helpful, nor was it likely to happen.

She continued on, unaware of his distraction and his clumsy fingers. "She's clever, that one. Harriet caught me, actually, right as I was coming back inside—"

The Doctor's hands froze, fingers still tangled in the silky ribbons. "Did you find anything?"

"I don't know," Rose laughed, the sound short and breathy. "Not really." He wondered if she was oxygen-deprived. The corsets these days were a bit less structured than the ones of old, but Rose was a 21st century girl; she was used to baggy t-shirts and denims and more modern undergarments. And, his mind insisted hurriedly, the more casual, carefree look suited her.

Though, he had to say—as his eyes trailed covertly down the ridge of her spine, over the faint curves of vertebra emerging from her under-dress, which drooped lower with each loosened lace—she looked good in just about anything.

Shoving the thought aside, his hands returned to their work. It was made more difficult by every effort not to let his knuckles brush against her back.

"—pretending to have a headache," she was saying, her voice growing in animation as her bodice slackened. "So, I left them in the tea room. But I had to wander the manor a bit before I even found a door outside. This place is a _maze!_ And I used to think the _TARDIS_ was difficult…"

"Well, this place isn't telepathic and interested in helping you find your way around," he replied, though he felt a small burst of pride in his chest. Rose got better at navigating his timeship every day; it was becoming her home as much as it had ever been his. "The TARDIS can choose whether or not she wants to be incomprehensible."

Rose gave another small, huffed laugh. "I can't decide whether that makes it better or worse that I can never find the laundry." Her shoulders stilled for only a moment before lifting again as her hands crawled into her hair, trussed up in an elaborate pile of period-appropriate curls.

Once again, his hands stilled as his eyes followed her actions. The damp strands of her hair glowed gold in the candlelight, and her fingers fluttered like pale wings, deftly withdrawing pin after pin, unwinding lock after lock. Each shift of her arms made the muscles of her back jump, brushing his hands with her unwitting warmth.

One curl dropped at a time, some swinging loosely over the backs of his knuckles. And as the curls fell, so went the lavender sprigs which had been tucked in here and there, sending their delicate fragrance floating through the air.

As the last curl fell—their coils damp and already loosening from the rain—he watched her shoulders relax once more with a gentle smile on his lips. She let out a small, happy sigh.

"Feel better?"

"I will once you get this stupid corset off," she griped good-naturedly. "I could hardly breathe, let alone eat a bite at dinner with this thing cutting into me. And, let me tell you, running is a _misery_ in this many layers. By the time I made it outside…"

And she paused, sighing again as he loosened another row. Only two more to go, and she'd be free. But he felt his hands slowing again, almost against his will. Why was he prolonging this?

"Yes?"

"I was so light-headed, I could hardly walk properly. And I didn't even know what I was looking for, really, so I'm not sure it did any good, other than getting me soaked through."

Despite himself, the Doctor gave a dissatisfied huff. "Well," he said grudgingly, "at least it was more useful than standing around pretending to drink brandy and care about, I dunno, horse breeding." Rose's answering snort was decidedly inelegant, and it cheered him immediately. "Though I did get the sense that Mr. Hyde is hiding something—ha!" He paused, smiling further. "Hyde. Hiding. That's really good—like a novel."

"Well, I suppose we won't be able to find out until tomorrow. Unless," Rose paused, and her shoulders stiffened minutely, "you fancy running around by candlelight tonight, investigating."

Of course, he'd been considering it. Exploring at night, when the house was abed and nobody could bother them, made sense. But Rose's body language said that she wasn't necessarily up for wandering the estate in a nightgown. Which was odd. His brow unconsciously furrowed. "Not if you don't want to," he said carefully.

Rose's shifting weight was starting to get distracting. His pinky finger brushed her bare skin, and the resulting goosebumps mesmerized him.

She sighed a little. "I mean, if you think it will help…" But she trailed off, sounding dreadfully unconvincing.

"No need," the Doctor insisted. "We ought to wait until tomorrow, anyway, see if the storm clears up on its own before we start meddling in other people's business." Only after saying it did he realize it was true. Actually, he was immensely surprised by himself: this might have been the only time in living memory that he'd turned down an investigation for a quiet night's sleep. But the immediate relaxing of Rose's shoulders told him he'd made the right decision.

"Harriet says we don't act like a married couple," she offered up nonchalantly. “She says there’s something about the way we look at one another… like we’re still—‘courting,’ she called it.”

"Harriet says a lot of things, for a maid," he said, stopping himself before he could say something uncharitable. _Although…_ "I suppose she's clever, then, and observant? Probably sees everything that goes on in the house?" He felt himself working up to a proper babble, and his fingers sped up in synchrony. "We should talk to her tomorrow—you know, the domestic approach. She might know if something's been going on, the comings and goings, something useful like—"

And then, Rose's corset fell to the ground.

His eyes dropped to the floor and the lump of stiff fabric before sliding back up, to the lovely stretch of exposed skin—what seemed like miles of it, curving down over her shoulder and into sharp scapula, and then lower, though he didn't let himself think about or even _look_ at the peachy expanse disappearing into the wilted cotton chemise. He stepped back instead, his hands falling tightly to his sides.

Self-control wasn't a problem for him, usually. He'd been practicing this sort of denial for such a long time that it hardly felt like pain—like an ache so familiar it became a friend. Most of the time, he could just sort of… dance around it. But with Rose, it was different. Difficult. He lifted his eyes before she could turn around, being sure to meet hers when she did. It was easier that way.

And to his satisfaction, some of the color had returned to her cheeks. In fact, they were rather pink, flushed-looking. "Thanks," she sighed, stretching once and deeply before her eyes fluttered open again, alert and sparkling as ever. "Here, let me get yours."

The minimal space he'd created evaporated in a second as she stepped forward, out of the shell of the discarded corset and into his orbit. She smelled like herself—honeysuckle and strong tea—and also like damp grass and red wine, and a bit like the apple tart they'd had for dessert. His olfactory system took note of it all before his mind could stop it, strangled as it might have been by formalwear.

"Oh," he piped up, voice tighter than the cravat around his neck, "you don't have to—"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, swatting away his hand and stepping closer still, "we haven't got a mirror in here. You'll never get all those knots undone on your own."

She had a point.

He hated when she had a point.

The Doctor's hands fell back to his sides, flexing intentionally so not to make fists, while hers lifted to loosen the fabric around his neck. It took her a moment to work out exactly what she should be doing, how the knots worked, but she was quick when it came to that sort of thing. She called it muscle memory from her time at Henrik's, in menswear. Her fingers loosened the cravat even as her low, calming voice loosened the tightness that had unconsciously gathered in his shoulders.

"D’you think there's any chance that the storm is just a storm?" she asked mildly, her thoughts plainly elsewhere. "Hang on, does the vortex have… I dunno, weather patterns?"

"Not exactly," he replied, throat bobbing when her fingers brushed over his Adam's apple. "Not in the same sense as Earth, or really any other planet with an atmosphere. It's more like—like the sea, I suppose. Things get stuck in it, get lost or destroyed, and then they float around like flotsam. Or is it jetsam? I can never remember, and I'm rubbish with maritime law. Either way, the debris makes its own sort of waves, even occasionally falling into foreign timestreams."

Her arms were stretched up and around his neck now, not that he was thinking about it. He was thinking about flotsam—jetsam? Whatever. The scent of her skin was heavy around his head, making it spin.

"Like meteors?" The question brushed up against the skin of his throat. She was so _close._ A few more inches and she'd be kissing his neck.

Not that she'd ever kissed his neck before.

Not that she had any reason to _now._

He forced himself to answer normally. "Yes, a bit like that." He didn’t want to mention that it was _more_ like the Chula ship they’d followed into the Blitz—didn’t want to remind her of Jack just now.

Rose hummed. "I don't know how you coped with wearing this all night." He tried not to let his eyebrows jump at yet another change of subject. Her thoughts must've really been a million miles away if she couldn't keep track of their rather simple conversation. He was just wondering if he should ask her when—

"There you are,” she announced, winding the last stretch of the cravat away from his throat and around her fingers.

He inhaled deeply, and the scent of Rose filled his lungs. It was better than he'd imagined.

Of course.

She usually was.

"Thanks," he replied, aiming for cheer but landing somewhere closer to desperate as he joked, “I was moments away from my respiratory bypass kicking in.” When he swallowed anxiously, her eyes caught the shift of his Adam's apple and he felt his vision start to close and narrow, pinning him to the floor. Like he really _wasn’t_ breathing, only he was. He was, and she smelled like heaven, and—

And he couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing at all. He kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his vest and tossed it aside, purely for _something_ to do.

Maybe it was the brandy, or maybe the crash landing had shaken him up more than he thought, but he couldn’t seem to think of anything other than Rose. _Rose, Rose, Rose._ It matched his pulse—outmatched it.

"Doctor," the object of his thoughts said, quite calmly even as her eyes tracked his every move, "did your people share beds with their wives?" He couldn't answer, because his eyes and the entirety of his mighty brain were fixed on her tongue, which had darted out mere moments ago to wet her bottom lip, leaving the pink of her skin shiny in the lamplight. "That is, generally, was it done?"

What was she asking? He tried to parse it, but nothing made sense, and her scent had sucked all the air out of the room.

Still, after what felt like an embarrassingly long time—but was probably just a few nanoseconds—he managed an answer.

"Some of them did, yes."

It wasn't _strictly_ untrue.

Some of them probably had. At some point. Possibly.

Rose nodded, some unspoken decision made. And then she reached for his hand, tugging him gently toward the bed. It was smaller than more modern ones—or maybe all the frothy pillows and trimmings ate up space. Either way, it was an embarrassment of brocade and velvet, luxurious in the extreme, and she was pulling him toward it—down onto it, across it, until they were side-by-side, face-to-face on top of the duvet.

The candle beside the bed, their source of light, sputtered and then sparked. Rose's eyes momentarily glowed gold. And behind her, the rain slashed against the windows.

He still couldn't think of anything to say, which was so unusual that he very nearly commented on it.

"Doctor," Rose repeated in that same low, gentle tone, "did your people kiss their wives goodnight?"

The Doctor blinked. He felt as if his hearts were in his throat, which was quite a crowded feeling. He had to swallow before getting out his reply, which was an altogether uninspiring answer of: "Maybe."

Which, once again, boasted of being not _categorically_ a lie. It was plausible that, at some point, someone had kissed someone else goodnight.

“Don’t look so scared,” Rose teased, her mouth curving into a soft smile. “I haven’t gotten any wires crossed—I don’t _actually_ think we’re married.” And then she lapsed into quiet for a moment, though he knew she wasn’t done speaking by the little pull between her brows; she was thinking. Which was good. Necessary, probably, as he wasn’t thinking anything at all—his head was totally, alarmingly empty. “It’s just, we pretend all the time. To be—to be _together_ , and wouldn’t it just be… I dunno, _easier_ —if we weren’t pretending? If we did a few small things, maybe. Couple things. To make it seem more… real?”

_Easier,_ he thought. _No, I don't think it would be easier at all._ Instead of saying that, he asked, "What kind of things?" Because he had a right to know, didn't he, what exactly it was she was proposing?

"Well," Rose began, her uncertainty plain in just that word alone. "You don't sleep very much. Only every few days or so. So, if we wanted to do something couples ordinarily do, you could—if you like—sleep with me, in my room."

"With you," he repeated tonelessly. Like a question but not. Was the air getting thinner? He felt as if he couldn't breathe.

"Yeah. And we already hold hands, of course, which is something couples do—it wouldn't be much of a step to—to—" but Rose apparently couldn't bring herself to say it, even though he could certainly follow her chain of logic.

_"Did your people kiss their wives goodnight?"_

"Rose," the Doctor said softly. He could see her pulse leaping under the thin skin of her throat. A lock of hair had fallen over her forehead, and he lifted his hand to brush it away. It felt like silk: like real, fine silk one might find in an expensive shop, or deep in the caves of the Eight Legs on Metebelis III. Her roots were _just barely_ showing, less than two millimeters, but he could see the amber brown. He sighed. "You don't want to kiss me."

He felt no surprise when her eyes widened, when her jaw petulantly tightened. "And how would you know that?"

He tucked his hand back under his cheek. "You _think_ you want to kiss me; you like the _idea_ of kissing me—there's a difference, you see?" It was plain that she did _not_ see. Her brow furrowed further: two little parallel lines formed. Frustration. "The fact is, you wouldn't like kissing me once you'd done it. Or you would, for a little—and then the novelty would wear off and we'd be left endlessly kissing, swapping saliva back and forth out of habit, kissing out of social necessity, because we wouldn't either of us have the courage to speak up about it. That's how so many of your human marriages—relationships— _whatever_ you'd like to call them— _actually_ go."

By the time he'd stated his case, Rose had reared back so far on the pillow that he could no longer see the sunset-colored specks in her eyes, or the golden swirl that curled around each iris. Only darkness. She looked horrified—nothing short of absolutely shocked by his explanation.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, and then she said, "Not all of them."

"Yes, but how could we avoid it? Even on my planet, people got bored. Long lifespans like ours—that is, Gallifreyans' _—_ aren't conducive to monogamy, but some people did try to stick it out. They were stubborn, and almost always, they were the most miserable couples." It felt good, the Doctor realized, to say these things. Freeing, in a way. It was the closest he could bring himself to saying _, I know you'll get tired of me and you'll leave._ “And you humans—you’re even more prone to that… sort of thing.”

But Rose didn't look convinced.

"So, you've decided for the both of us, then? We'll just… never try?"

"It would be easier," he offered, using her own argument against her. "We'd never have to know."

Her horror had sunken into something far more difficult to face—a mournful, deep sadness that was so rare on her familiar features. Pinched brows and a pout. Rose plucked restlessly at a seam on her pillow, worrying at it with her little fingers. "But don't you feel it?" She spoke up suddenly, her voice faint and resigned. "You and me? We're—we've _got_ something, you know?"

"Of course I feel it," he replied, trying to sound gentle. "Probably better than you can."

"Right, with your 'superior senses'." She rolled her eyes.

"No, because I've—" His voice caught in his throat. "I've been alone longer." Lowering his eyes, he tried not to think about how stricken she looked, lips parted in a delicate "o."

"Doctor—"

"Don't, please. The point is that it would never work. And," he paused, lips twitching, "my senses _are_ superior to yours. I would know the moment you stopped wanting to do it. The very second."

"But—"

"Anyway," he continued, "look how grumpy you were about just that—about even the faintest allusion to our differences in biology. You _hate_ me reminding you of it, but I do it all the time, because I can't help it and also because it's important to remember. I’m not human, Rose,” he said, and it sounded like he was pleading with her. Perhaps he was. “ _Imagine_ trying to force yourself—imagine still having to kiss me after one of my infuriating speeches about our relative lifespans. Having to pretend to want to, because you’re afraid of… hurting my feelings or something ridiculous. You'd absolutely hate it, I know you w—"

"I don't _have_ to imagine," she interrupted, voice sharper than it had been all night—than it had been in several days, actually. The last time she'd sounded this irritated, he'd reversed them into a time stream that flowed backwards and she'd had to go through her "time of the month" _twice._ "I know _exactly_ how infuriating you are," she informed him, "and that doesn't make me want to kiss you any less. It never has."

Lightning split the sky behind her, a corona of light momentarily framing her head. Her hair glowed white-gold while her face fell into momentary darkness. Which was fortunate, because he could hardly bear to look at her just now.

"Rose," he tried.

"Hang on, I’m not done! You and I," she cried, "are _not_ some—some loveless, beans-on-toast, common human couple.” Her face pinched in disgust. “We aren't a statistic. We're—you and me, we're the stuff of _legends._ We could travel for a hundred years, or more, and we’d _never_ get bored. Not with the universe, and not with each other."

She was on a roll now—blood rushing into her cheeks, her fingers growing more and more agitated. He felt his own adrenaline rise in response, and had to breathe deeply to tamp it down. This was the problem with her: he wasn’t human, but she certainly made him act like it.

"Don't tell me you can predict what's gonna happen, because you're rubbish at it. You can barely predict what we'll be doing tomorrow, let alone years and years from now. And I _love_ that," Rose said, looking at him so earnestly. Her hand reached across the small space, pressed against his chest. Her palm was warm. "I really do. It’s one of my favorite things about traveling in the TARDIS. And I won't stop loving it, probably ever, because I won't stop loving _you_ ever—"

And her mouth popped open, at the same time his hearts skipped several beats. Like missing a step on a stairway and then falling, one foot stumbling one after another. Surely she felt it. Rose looked mortified, of course, and he couldn't exactly blame her: it was obvious she hadn't intended to reveal her feelings in the midst of a speech about semi-platonic kissing. And at the same time, he felt strangely at ease with the declaration. Almost like he'd been expecting it. Like it was the sort of thing she’d do.

But that _was_ the essence of Rose, wasn't it? Always putting herself out there, saying what she meant, believing fervently in people and goodness and love. It was what made her such a brilliant companion—what made it so easy to slip into the circle of her warmth, to want to _stay_ there—even knowing that any kind of forever with her was impossible.

The Doctor stared at Rose, and she stared back. Two scared animals, wondering who would move first.

Of course, it was Rose. Her hand drew back, taking her warmth with her. “I—I didn’t—”

“Rose,” he repeated gently, like he might say _it’s all right,_ or like he might say _I love you, too._ Were he capable of saying such a thing. Instead, he just whispered her name and looked at her and _willed_ her to understand. “Please.” _It won’t be easier._

_It will be_ so much _harder._

Her eyes dropped to his lips when he spoke, and he watched the flame spark within them—dark and honey-gold and daring—and he knew he’d lost. He’d lost the moment he’d come back to the same spot in an alleyway, hoping she’d still be there, and said, _“Did I mention it also travels in time?”_ He’d lost the second he’d first reached for her hand and cried, _“Run!”_ He’d lost because of who she was, and what he’d been through, and all that she had given him.

Her glorious stubbornness.

Her determination to care for him in a way that nobody else could. When nobody else would have.

Her compassion. All the things that made her glow with life.

She’d offered them to him. Was _still_ offering them to him.

“I know you’re scared,” Rose whispered, her voice quivering. “That’s why you’re saying all those—all those _hopeless_ things. It’s okay. I am, too. Scared, I mean. But,” and she took a deep breath. Steadying herself. She was leaning forward even as she spoke. “I want to kiss you anyway.”

And still he hesitated. Only for a tiny fraction of a second, but a thousand little things occurred to him in that moment—everything he’d now do to keep her safe, if they did this. How much worse it would be to lose her. Everything he would have to sacrifice, how far he would have to go, to protect her from a universe that wanted to tear them apart and obliterate her: turn her into less than stardust in his hands.

The decision made, he nodded.

And Rose pressed sweetly to him: a honeysuckle cloud carried on a warm breeze as she touched her mouth to his. Halting and unsure for barely a moment before growing bold, sliding one hand over his jaw. He tried to be very still—he tried to retain every fragment of every sensation occurring both within and without, because this _was not_ something he could allow himself to forget—but that wasn’t what she wanted, and it wasn’t what he wanted either. Her lips pulled on his, inquiring. A hand tugging a door open. An invitation to come in.

His mouth came to life beneath hers, like he’d been placed in suspended animation and her kiss was the only thing that could wake him.

Which it was; he could admit that to himself. He’d been living a half-life, holding himself back from the girl who loved him so well, so persistently. And as her lips moved urgently against his, her fingers slipping easily into his hair and holding on with a grip tighter, more lasting than mere touch, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to that.

Never again.

Once he’d opened the floodgates, it was hard to stop other reactions. His own hand—disloyal appendage that it was—made a desperate bid for her waist, curving around her with the sort of protective, desperate energy he’d made such an effort to repress all these months. The cotton shifted against his palm, and he could feel the softness of her beneath. The ridges of her ribs, the gentle curve of her hips. His fingers flexed into the fabric, seeking to burrow through it, into her very skin.

With her chest against his, he could feel the echo of her speeding heartbeats with greater clarity. He could feel the hitches in her breathing when his tongue danced over hers, or when he nibbled too enthusiastically on her bottom lip, holding it captive between his teeth.

They kissed for a time that was so interminable, so private and soft and self-contained, that he almost lost track of it. Almost. That is, they kissed for twenty-three long minutes and forty-eight gossamer seconds, stretched out like taffy between them. And then Rose pulled away—or rather, extracted herself from the tangle that their limbs had become. Her bare feet pressed against the tops of his. “Doctor,” she said, her voice a low rasp.

“Hm?” His hand persisted in stroking—hip to waist and back down again. Every time her chemise shifted, he bunched more of it under his hand, collecting a cloud in his palm. When she didn’t immediately answer, he glanced up and into her eyes, which burned with a dark light.

Rose held his gaze as she reached down and pulled the fabric from his grip, leaving his hand to hover while she dragged her chemise up—up, and higher, completely baring her thigh, and then her hip, and then she was upright, pulling the loose cotton over her shoulders—her stomach and breasts all bare in one sudden, summer-gold flash that wiped his brain into a blank slate.

His first coherent thought was: _It’s an anachronism._

And then: _Blimey._

She wore no drawers, though she was still wearing some sort of stocking, held up around her thighs with a ribboned garter. And the tidiness of her sex was also quite decidedly modern. _An anachronism._ She was out of time, silky soft and shining where she should not have been. But he cared very little, he realized, for timelines and inconsistencies and the concept of “should.” There was no “ _should.”_

There was just Rose and skin and the divot of her navel and he’d never seen that beauty mark before and lines and curves and _Rose_ and her hair had gone quite rumpled—he’d been running his fingers through it, so no wonder—and this was Rose and she wanted _him_ and—

“Doctor,” she said softly, pulling him out of his distracted reverie. Her lips were pressed tightly together, expression a combination of taut nerves and gentle amusement. “You’re staring.”

“Well,” he began. His lips pulled together to make an “o,” searching for the right words—any words, really. His jaw worked. “You—well, you’re very—that is, I—” _Stupid. Stupid Doctor._

Blessedly, she bent her head and put him out of his misery. A lock of her hair fell and tickled his ear. And her lips, fever-warm and persistent, pulled him out of his distraction. Or rather, distracted him in a different way, until his hand was back on her soft waist, cradling her to him again like nothing had changed. Except everything had. Again. He could smell it on her skin, and feel it in himself, roiling low in the pit of his stomach.

Running a hand down the back of her thigh, catching on the ribbons that held up one pale stocking, had the faint feeling of impossibility—like it wasn’t allowed—until she made a soft sound of appreciation and kicked the limb up over his hip. It was _very_ allowed, it seemed. She rocked into him in an unfocused, unconscious way, pulling his attention to the disparity in their state of dress. But he couldn’t abandon her leg, couldn’t stop touching the edge of her jaw, where it met her throat, beneath which her heartbeat thudded away with reckless, oh-so-human abandon.

Her hand slid inside the gap in his shirt, blazing against his chest. “Can I take this off?” she murmured against his lips. He mumbled something—something unintelligible or stupid, but definitely affirmative—and nearly moaned as her hand dragged down his stomach before crawling up again, pulling his shirt as she went.

The Doctor wondered how she did all of it so gracefully, when he felt as if he were shuddering forward in stops and starts, never making much progress—just lying back while she made sense of the riot going on in his chest. His fingers toyed restlessly with the ribbon, tugging it a bit. _That_ was something he could do—get the stockings off, get her legs to an appropriate state of exposure. He turned his attention to that and only that; or maybe _mostly_ that, and a little bit to tasting every inch of her mouth. With surprisingly solid hands, he rolled onto his back and pulled her up on top of him, legs folded on either side of his hips.

Releasing her mouth, he said, “got to get these off,” or something in that vein before turning his attention to the ribbons, tugging out the knots with a shaky sort of patience. Once they were loose, he used both hands to slide the stockings off her legs; she raised each knee in turn, shifting over him, rolling her hips in a way that left no doubt what she must be feeling. Her breathing stalled when she ground down on him before giving a little, curious whimper.

“Guess that answers _that_ question,” she mumbled.

Startled, the Doctor nearly laughed into her open mouth. “ _Rose Tyler,_ don’t tell me you’ve been wondering what’s in my trousers.”

“‘Course I have,” she answered briskly, dropping away to nip at his newly-bared collarbones. “Can’t blame a girl for getting curious. Over two years living with you,” and she paused, rolling her hips again, resulting in a deliciously mutual moan, “and no clues? No sign at all?”

He shook his head, an amused smile lingering over his lips. “That’s because I’ve got s—”

“If you say ‘superior biology,’” Rose interrupted, “I’ll bite you.”

“I was going to say ‘self-control.’ You know, you really are quite violent,” he laughed, when her teeth scraped over his skin anyway. “Get back up here. Please." Obediently, she lifted her head to nibble his lips instead. “Higher,” he breathed.

When her face pulled away again, she wore a confused look, head tilted and hair pouring down over one shoulder. She could’ve been a painting, only she was real, and there, and his.

Hands sliding around to cup her bum, he pulled her forward, and the heat between her legs seemed closer to an inferno against the bare skin of his stomach. He inched her up, closer and closer, so she had to tilt her chin quite dramatically to look down at him. “Higher,” he repeated.

Her brows furrowed. Her confusion had turned to a deep, penetrating curiosity. Like she was trying to see through him.

“What, have I got something on my face?”

“Doctor,” she sighed, “if I shift any more, _I’ll_ be on your—oh.”

She paused. And in the silence, he felt another wave of her arousal settle over him, even as a delicate blush traveled up her throat. “That is sort of the point,” he said, nodding agreeably, trying desperately not to smile too dopily at the heady chemical cocktail she was pouring into him.

It seemed that she was torn between the two opposing feelings, and despite his sudden, single-minded desire to taste and analyze, he squeezed her hips in reassurance, rubbing his thumbs in interlocked circles. Spelling word after word. He didn’t know what he was writing; probably “ _please.”_

“Is that not something you want? If it’s not, we don’t have to—it’s just—”

Rose cleared her throat, tossing her head back. A show of bravado, but he felt the muscles shift under her skin. “No—I mean, I don’t know. I’ve only—well, I’ve only tried it once,” and _blimey,_ did he _not_ want to know, “—nearly suffocated him, I think.” Her face went the shade of a ripe tomato, and he suddenly realized that her tense limbs were poised to _move_ , to _go,_ and so he said the first thing he could think of.

“Yes, well, _he_ didn’t have a respiratory bypass.” He spoke briskly, trying to get the words out before she realized this was a mistake and bolted. “Even if you somehow managed to seal my nose _and_ mouth—quite a feat, considering how small you are—it would take you approximately seven hours to successfully smother me, and frankly, Rose,” he cocked an eyebrow, “I don’t think you’ll last that long.” And then he fell silent.

Watching her eyes widen and a smile pluck her lips, he felt another wave of pleasure travel over him. Hers and his. Theirs. Her legs relaxed under his hands. He forced himself not to grin as he tacked on, “Superior biology, you know.”

She rolled her eyes, and the last of the tension left her. “You’re unbearable,” she muttered, scooting further up his chest, one hand reaching for the headboard to steady herself. She was so close he could almost already taste her.

His tongue slipped out to wet his lips, and it felt lascivious. Luxurious. Lush. “You love it,” he quipped, his mouth rolling around that word. That _word._

_Love._

Rose nodded, and all the air left his lungs. Leaving him light-headed. Her eyes glittered down at him, luminous like sunstones. “I do.” _I do love you,_ she was telling him. And then she lowered down onto him.

And that was all there was.

Flavor, precisely sampled for familiar notes—the taste of a shared spoon while they ate banana ice cream, the smell of her skin on his old jumpers, a tart taste like seltzer spiked with cherry—gathered with one sweep of his tongue, which made Rose twitch in his arms. He made a map of her, all the valleys and folds, until he could render her in ink. He gathered desire, honey-smooth and thick, everywhere his mouth traveled until she was wet and writhing, her arms stretched out and hands no-doubt white-knuckled on the headboard, head thrown back and her words hitting the ceiling before drifting back down to his ears.

Rose said something unintelligible that went straight through his head, only a series of vibrations with no meaning attached. He hummed, and she shuddered. And then he pulled his mouth back, remembering. “Only about six hours and forty-eight minutes until I fall unconscious,” he teased her. “Just a warning.”

“You can breathe just fine,” she snapped weakly, her head hanging like a heavy balloon. “I heard you gasping down there.”

His chuckle buzzed against her clit—the piece of her anatomy he’d been studiously working around and above and never _on_ —and her eyes snapped shut before wrenching open to glare down at him, a play at irritation that he _knew_ she didn’t feel. Holding her eyes, his tongue darted out and flicked against the bundle of nerves, back and forth. Her breath caught, belly hollowing as she tried to curl in on herself. Back and forth _again._ She made a hushed sound, held tight between her lips. And _again._ Her legs tried to close around his ears, but he held them still. Back and forth, back and forth, left to right, again and again, and he watched her face while he did it, which felt nothing sort of sinful.

The way her eyelids fluttered and her lips pursed and her brows scrunched and her nose wrinkled and her mouth went slack—all of it felt too sweet somehow, and he was undeserving of it, and still he wanted more of it. His eyes watched hungrily for each reaction, for each tiny gesture that meant she was getting closer. Closer to the satisfaction he could almost taste. And if he could give her that, just _that_ —

It was a poor substitute for a confession of love, really. But it was what he had to give.

And he gave it to her.

Her heartbeat hammered, pulse so strong that he could feel it in the delicate skin under his mouth. Vitality mixed with mortality. What an ephemeral thing she was, his Rose. And yet, when she started to come—muscles contracting, voice a strained and broken thing fluttering high above his head, one hand sliding down into his hair as she rode it out on his lips and tongue—she was all there was, filling every inch of his universe.

Unending.


	44. a lover's moon, the satellite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Do you think the Doctor ever told Rose what Gallifrey was like? Like one day they go stargazing on a random planet and he described the scenery and stuff with a sad voice while holding her?" (yes, yes i do think that.)  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose

The sky is busy tonight.

“Over there, look,” the Doctor whispers, pointing out into the star-studded black. Rose's squinting eyes follow the stretch of his arm, and the long line of his finger, only to make out a dim flicker at the end. It’s almost lost in the immediate traffic of the asteroid field, but she sees the flash—steady, once every few seconds or so.

“What is it?” she whispers back, though she hardly knows why she feels the need to be quiet. There’s no one, nothing to hear them—not for further than she can see.

His arm sags, hand falling out over the threshold of the TARDIS to float. His limbs—like hers—are functionally weightless, light as a leaf on a river current, but still untouched by the cold vacuum of space: here, with their bellies stretched flat over the grating and their heads out the door, they are protected by the ship’s atmosphere and shields. It is a fragile sort of protection, and Rose feels the sudden urge to tug the Doctor’s wayward limb back into the shelter of the ship. Instead, she curls her arms under her chin and leans on it, head tilting.

“I call it the Lost Satellite," the Doctor explains in a hushed, reverent voice. "It got knocked out of orbit around New Venus after a solar storm in the year 4 billion, so now it just sort of… floats.” His hand makes a faint fluttering motion, aimless. "I see it around every few hundred years."

Feeling a flash of dismay, Rose nudges him with an elbow. "Shouldn't we… y’know, knock it back?"

But the Doctor simply shrugs, not looking her way or acknowledging her prodding at all. "Why should we?" he asks. "It's unmanned, I've checked. And it's an exploratory vessel—no scheduled rendezvous. No one is waiting for it. Though, I'm sure it's picked up some really interesting data by now…" This last bit is mumbled, almost low enough to get lost in the hushed quiet of the air around them. But then he adds, too casually: "Nah, it's better off on its own, I think."

Rose has been around too long, has heard too many dozens of little asides just like this one, not to hear what he isn't saying. She stays quiet, but slides her hand down his arm, over the lip of the TARDIS—where familiar wood meets empty air—and tangles her fingers with his. There is no breeze; all is still. And she can feel the faint throb of his pulse under the thin skin of his wrist.

After a moment, he says, "My planet would be that way, if it were anywhere." His voice is so crisp, unhaunted, that she'd almost imagine him unaffected if it weren't for the faint uptick in his pulse. "Past the satellite—by several million lightyears, of course."

Softly, her hand squeezes his. "I didn't know."

"How could you?" he asks with a small shrug. "I never talk about it."

For a moment, she can't decide—should she let it go? Should she push? The outcomes of either action feel blurry and unpredictable, and she has to operate on sheer instinct. What would she do, if he _wasn't_ a mad alien who had swept her through time and space and kept her running all the while? What would she say, if he was just her friend?

His hand is cool beneath hers, but warming.

"Tell me about it?"

To her amazement, he does.

Halting at first, but with a reverent tone, the Doctor shares what he can of the wild splendor of Gallifrey. The cliffs and mountains, the vast plains and rolling hills, the tall grass and silver-leafed trees: he paints such a vivid picture that Rose nearly feels she's been there. Nostalgia colors his descriptions, no doubt, but she doesn't much mind, and there is something in his face when he speaks—

Contentment.

_Peace_ , she'd call it, if it weren't for the fact that the Doctor is _never_ at peace, not really, and certainly not now, with way his hand steadily fiddles and toys with hers, pushing down on her knuckles, curling her fingers and then stretching them, stroking up and down between the webbing. He looks at her hand and describes his homeworld and, in a small way, it makes her feel closer to him than she’s ever been.

Rose isn't sure how long they lay like that, hands intertwined and the Doctor speaking in a low, steady voice.

"Doctor," she says softly, an interminable time after her muscles have gone stiff from lying so long in one position.

"Hm?" He looks up from his exploration of her palm, and his eyes are dark, wide open. The pupils are round like black holes, and she does rather feel sucked in.

"Shift," she commands. "I'm getting sore." When he releases her hand—reluctantly, of course—she rolls onto her back, letting her loose hair spill out of the ship. Though, "spill" is perhaps not the right word: like his hand had, the strands float. She’s quite certain it looks frightful, curling and fanning out around her face like she's underwater. But the Doctor just looks down at her, propped as he is on one elbow.

There is a look on her face—a vast softness, all-encompassing and familiar. The way he’d spoken of his home world. Only, for her.

She smiles. "Tell me more," Rose commands, pulling his hand back into hers.

He rolls onto his back, too. And he resumes talking like he’d never stopped. He tells her about—well, about _everything._

About the two stars in the sky, and what kind they were—still are, he explains, if one were to fly through where Gallifrey once was.

About The Capitol, and the way its dome caught the early morning sunlight, flooding the whole city with a warm, deep amber hue.

About the way he and his friends once wove circlets out of red grass and wore them like crowns as they played at being High Gallifreyan Lords.

People, slowly but steadily, have begun to populate this long-gone world. Characters in a story that she has no connection to, but that he knows as well as he knows himself: people called Romana and Braxiatel and Koschei, and dozens of other names that she can’t keep hold of. And still, Rose keeps quiet, and keeps her hand tucked into his. His skin is human-warm now, and softer than soft.

He talks for a long, long time—not like he's ever talked before—about people and places she can never see or know. And though his voice is sad, there is something else in it, too. Something she can't put her finger on, but likes the sound of.

And then, his speech fades into nothing.

Apparently, that is all there is.

Rose's eyes blink open, not knowing how long they'd been closed. Turning her head, she catches sight of his own face in profile, freckled and long-nosed, familiar in all its features. His own eyes are closed, dusky dark lashes fanning out over high pale skin. And there is a small, exceedingly lovely smile on his face.

"Doctor," she whispers, afraid to break this new, tranquil stillness.

"Mm?" His eyes flutter open, and she's caught off guard by them—by the beauty of them, and the depth. Gold crackles through the brown, like veins of pure light. She can't look at him much longer or she's sure she'll do something mad—start weeping, maybe. So, Rose tucks her head against the Doctor’s shoulder and stretches out against him.

His arm slips around her. She can make out his heavy heartbeats again, this time pumping warmly against her ear. She wants to nuzzle deeper, but instead she says, "Let's go find the satellite later."

Silence.

"You said there might be data," she offers, though it feels like a lame explanation, even to her. She takes a deep breath before admitting, "I just think—seeing how it's alone out there— _somebody_ ought to check up on it. Why not us?"

After another long, still moment, the Doctor curls his head forward, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. She can tell by the set of his lips—smile shaped—and the way his arm squeezes tighter around her that he is pleased by her curiosity. Though, she can't imagine why he should be—it makes good sense, doesn't it? That something left alone that long, for thousands of years, might deserve a second look?

She gives in and digs her nose into his lapel, breathing deeply. It's not a _bad_ idea, surely, to approach the satellite. It can’t be _dangerous._

"All right," he speaks into her hair. "If that's what you want."

Rose nods her head firmly. He smells like tea, and she never wants to let go. Her arm tightens around his waist. "It is."

Above her head, the Doctor wears an unmistakable expression of happiness. "Of course it is," he says. "Rose Tyler: Lover of Lost Things."

And she smiles, because it's true.

They both know it.


	45. I will but kiss, I never more will bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Lotsofthinkythoughts  
> Prompt: "This is an official request for more nymph Rose with her new roommate Nine. Just being soft and safe together."  
> Pairing: Nine x Rose
> 
> note: this a short sequel to chapter 11, "the garden where all beauties be." also, i forgot to mention it before, but the titles of these two ficlets were taken from sir philip sidney's sonnet 82.

The sun was cold overhead, as distant from her as it could possibly be.

Such was the nature of seasons. Of cycles. For each warm day spent dappled in soft summer sunlight, there was bound to be its equivalence in winter's deep and careless cold. Stepping outside was like plunging feet-first into a swiftly-flowing stream.

Still, she opened the door. It was dawn, and pale light glowed: from the snow on the ground, from the flakes in the air. All was white and windy.

"Rose," came a voice, rough-hewn with sleep and humanity. It emanated from the little back room where their pallet lay, followed by the sound of footsteps.

She turned at the threshold. A stiff wind blew the hem of her dress, wrapping it around her bare legs, but she did not shiver.

He hunched when he stepped through the doorway of their room; he was too big for this place, and yet he endeavored to belong here. That was what she loved most: the humanity, the humility it took to always _try._ To seek belonging wherever he went.

Her Traveler.

"I did not mean to wake you," she replied, but she did not close the door either. "This wind—I had a thought to cover some of the plants, before they are crushed by snow drifts."

John nodded. And then he came closer, bare feet padding across the wooden floor. She watched his feet; surely he was cold. But his eyes were warm. And when his hands landed on her arms, thumbs caressing the soft skin of the undersides, they were warm, too.

"Take my cloak," he said quietly.

There was a hook by the door—of a sort. It was coaxed out of a knot in the wood, twisted and drawn out into a curve, where it seemed quite content to serve. He reached over her shoulder, heedless of the steady gusting wind and the chill, gathering up his heavy blue cloak.

"But I—" she began, but she did not finish. She did not get cold—not the way he did. And yet…

As he hung the coat around her shoulders, the smell of it rose in the air. Familiar scents. _His_ scents. Wool and pine and salt and moss. It warmed her in a way she was still learning to understand: filled her with a strange, heavy comfort, deep in her belly. Like carrying a hot coal.

He clasped it at her neck, as carefully as he would a small child, and then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Work quickly," he said in his usual, quiet way. "And come back to bed."

She tilted her head, eyebrow arching.

"Rose," he repeated, and he would probably sound stern if she didn't see the smile in his eyes. He voiced it like a command, though she was not his to command. And he knew it. His brows were low, and his eyes glittered.

"I won't be long," she admitted. She had never intended to be. It was a flight of fancy that had drawn her out, seeking the snow. The sudden need to _be out there,_ among her plants—her friends, those beings who depended on her for their happiness. Though, in a way, John was not so different. She smiled faintly.

His lips came to rest at her hairline again, and she stood—stiller than still. Like a stone, perfectly content. She let his heat bleed into her, sun-warm and slow. And then she stepped out into the winter night.

Only for a little while. She knew they could never be parted long.


	46. Option Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "The eleventh doctor tutors rose."  
> Pairing: Eleven x Rose
> 
> note: additional inspiration came from the canon line, "i could help rose tyler with her homework."

Across the atrium, he watched the girl's blonde head drop to the wooden tabletop with a dull thud, which echoed painfully through the near-empty hall. He winced in sympathy. That _had_ to hurt. And it wasn't even the first time she'd done it tonight: whatever academic battle of the wills she was locked in, she seemed to be losing it.

"You're staring," Clara announced, not looking up from her own open textbook. She hadn't flipped a page in a solid quarter of an hour, so he was beginning to think that her "required reading" was actually a front for keeping him company while he worked on his equations.

She was a good friend.

Still, the snide comments weren't _strictly_ necessary.

"I'm not staring," he countered. "Staring is what creepy people do, and I am _not_ creepy."

At that, her doe eyes flicked up, filled with the usual cocktail of doubt and amusement. "Debatable. What _are_ you doing, then?"

He hesitated as the girl—Rose Tyler, her name was, or he _thought_ it was; he'd heard it yelled across the student union once—lifted her head, tossing her golden hair back over her shoulder. Her expression was determined. It seemed she was ready to resume the fight.

Clara cleared her throat, which reminded him that he was staring. Or, _not_ staring.

"Observing," he answered.

"Don't pull that 'science is everywhere' shit with me, Doctor," she griped. But she still looked as if she might laugh, so he knew he wasn't in _huge_ trouble. "You're looking at that pretty blonde girl who is about to sustain head trauma from her ongoing affair with that tabletop, and I think that instead of sitting here, staring—which, you _are_ staring, by the way—and pretending to do your homework, you should go talk to her."

" _You're_ the one pretending, Clara," he accused, jabbing at her book with his finger. "Unless that page of text is the densest material in the universe—in which case, I'd like to take it into the lab for further study."

"You're stalling." Clara's eyes narrowed. It seemed she was approaching actual irritation, he realized with a sigh.

Probably because he was being evasive. She _hated_ when he was evasive.

So, he supposed he had two options:

He could sit here while his best friend gave him another lecture about the importance of networking in academic environments, which would eat up all of his study time and probably last until the student union closed for the night, or—

_I could help Rose Tyler with her homework._

He heard another "thunk-a-thunk," which sounded an awful lot like a book being hit against something, coming from the direction of Rose's table. When he looked up, Clara was giving him That Look—the one that meant he was being dim-witted about something quite glaringly obvious.

Option two it was, then.

-

"Hello," he said.

_There. Good._ A _brilliant_ start.

Rose Tyler looked up from her textbook wearing an expression of adorable rage. Which should have been impossible, actually, but she somehow managed it. Maybe it was the pink jumper. Or the braids.

She did not reply.

He cleared his throat. "I couldn't help but notice that you appear to be caught in some sort of altercation with your table, and I thought I'd step in before your forehead began to bruise."

Her amber eyes widened, alarm overriding fury, and her hand leapt up to touch her forehead.

"No," he hurried to say, "no, it's fine now. You look fine—that is, you look—well, I was going to say that you looked frustrated, but now you mostly look confused, though I imagine that has more to do with my babbling and not so much the…"

He was mucking this up tremendously. Clara would no doubt have started boo-ing him by now, were she close enough to hear. Which, mercifully, she was not. He cleared his throat again. God, she probably thought he was phlegmy. "What are you working on?"

Rose Tyler looked, if anything, more confused by the question. "Calculus?" She didn't sound sure. Which would _possibly_ explain why she was having such a bad time of it.

"Are you sure?" he asked, stupidly.

Her brow wrinkled, and there was something endearing about it. "Of course I am." She had a strong accent, intensely South London, with a slightly combative edge to it. Or maybe she just _really_ didn't like him. He imagined she'd be good in a shouting match.

"No, right. I mean, of course you are." _Don't bollocks it up._ "Well, my name is James—or Jamie—or, not really. I don't know why I said that. My friends call me Doctor."

Rose's head tilted. "Why's that, then?"

"Because I'm going to be a doctor," he said, and he gave her his most winning smile. It worked, too. Something cracked, and she smiled back—just a little, not anything too friendly, but it was something. And he imagined that, when she _did_ smile properly, she was probably too beautiful to look at head on.

"Is that supposed to be impressive?" she asked.

"Sort of, yeah," he laughed. "But no, actually, I really—the reason I came over here was to ask if you needed help. With your homework, I mean. Can I sit?"

"Yeah?" Once again, she didn't sound sure.

"Are you sure?"

"Why do you keep saying that?" she asked, but she was laughing while she said it. She had a lovely laugh—not a bit like bells or anything. Just sort of humany, and very pleasant. "Sit down, you plum."

He smiled. No, he beamed. "It's the upspeak. You sound as though you lack confidence in your answers." He paused, watching the expressions play across her face. She looked like she couldn't quite decide whether or not she should be offended. "You shouldn't, though. You're quite—well, you have no reason not to be confident."

At that, she snorted an inelegant laugh. "Bollocks."

"Look at me. I have an honest face, right?" He put on his best, most sincere look. "Would I lie to you?"

"Honestly, I have no idea." Her smile was widening, inch by inch.

It was blinding.

-

"This is impossible," Rose mumbled into the curve of her arm. Her head was back on the table, though this time, there had been less violent thumping. _Small mercies,_ he thought. "It has to be. Because either it's impossible or I'm a complete idiot, and I'm not emotionally capable of accepting that reality right now."

Two weeks had passed. Two weeks of relentless tutoring, and she still seemed to struggle with every new Calculus assignment.

He was a fair enough teacher, but while Rose seemed to be completely brilliant at most things she tried—sociology, classic literature, environmental silence, painting, providing study snacks, telling dirty jokes, making his not insubstantial brains turn into goop with the slightest look—she was persistently abysmal at Calculus. Which would've been fine if she hadn't been majoring in "General Studies" until she decided what exactly she wanted to do for her degree. As it was, she couldn't really drop the class and get away with it.

He reached across the table to touch her hunched shoulder. The muscles bunched under his fingers, and he squeezed, hoping to soothe some of the stress away. "It's neither," he said. "I just haven't found the right way to explain it. Everyone learns differently, Rose."

He felt her sigh; he would've seen it from across the table, too, but it was nice to feel it. She was warm against his palm.

Right as he moved to lift his hand, her own flew up and grasped his fingers. Held them against her shoulder. Squeezed. "Thanks for not giving up on me," she whispered.

"The thought never crossed my mind."

And it was true.

-

Rose was a bad student.

Or, not a _bad_ student, per se—maybe just a distracting one.

And perhaps she wasn't distracting in _general,_ but she certainly distracted him.

She was grinning. "Come on, you can tell me," she goaded. "What was he like?"

Actually, maybe _he_ was the bad student.

Clara's grin was equally devious. "I can do you one better—I can _show_ you."

The two girls were currently sprawled across the floor of his and Clara's flat, under the guise of doing homework together. He was draped over the couch, under the guise of doing homework by himself. But really, he was distracted, and it was Rose’s fault.

(The first time he'd brought Rose back to the flat—because the student union had been closing and they weren't done studying—Clara had been sitting on the kitchen counter, wearing a sleep shirt and horrifyingly faded bunny slippers that actually looked like twin demented dust mops. When he'd explained that they were roommates and lifelong best friends, Rose had looked at him askance, but then shrugged, immediately going over to ask Clara what kind of ice cream she was eating. Rose was brilliant like that. Since then, the flat had become their usual study spot. And Clara had become Rose's closest girlfriend.)

"No way," Rose said in smiling disbelief.

"No _way,_ " he groaned. "Clara, _don't._ "

"Too late!" she cried, already hopping up onto her feet and dashing away, grey bunny ears flopping with every step.

He groaned like an old man as he got off the sofa and then plopped down beside Rose on the floor. "You're supposed to be studying," he said, trying to sound suitably like an authority figure. But Rose only grinned, rolling onto her back to look up at him.

"You're just scared I won't fancy you anymore when I see you as a pre-teen with spots." Her tongue had somehow trapped itself between her teeth; it had a tendency to do that when she was being particularly cheeky. "Did you really have no eyebrows?"

But not even the pink slip of her tongue and her rather rude question about his grooming habits could distract him from the words he _thought_ he'd just heard. _Fancy you anymore. His_ stomach did a funny little leap, like it was trying to escape via his esophagus. _Anymore._

"You fancy me?"

"Of course I do, you plum," Rose replied. _You plum._ That seemed to be _her_ nickname for him. Everyone else called him James, or Doctor, but she seemed to communicate exclusively in fond insults. He liked it. "I did from the start."

She said it so casually that it felt like he'd had a blow to the head and missed something crucial.

His silence had the unintentional effect of keeping her talking. "Why do you think I come around so much?"

His brow crunched and compressed as he tried to process this information. "Because you're crap at maths."

She laughed, her hands flying to her belly in an attempt to contain it. "Fine, maybe a little. But it's mostly because I think you're brilliant. And fit." As she spoke, her fingers had dropped to the hem of her shirt—an ancient-looking Spiceworld Tour t-shirt that she'd probably actually got in 1998, based on the way it rode up over her stomach and clung everywhere else, and why was he so focused on that when he _ought_ to have been focusing on the words coming out of her mouth? Her lovely mouth.

"Is that okay?" She was pulling a loose thread.

He was shell-shocked. He didn't know _why_ he was; it wasn't completely unreasonable to think that he was—

That she would—

_Huh._

He decided in a blur, bending over to press a kiss to her barely-parted lips. She'd been eating ice cream with Clara again—mint chocolate, they both loved the stuff—and they were cold, but soft, and giving, and immediately receptive. _She_ was immediately receptive, her hands flying up to cup the back of his neck.

Her thumb brushed his hairline, and it felt a bit like he was out of his own body, except he was very much in it. His back was bent at some sort of ungodly angle that strained his sacrum, but he couldn't bring himself to move or care. He just—let himself kiss her like he'd been wanting to for months. Since before he'd started helping her with Calculus. Probably since before he'd known her full name, when she'd still been just the pretty blonde girl he saw sometimes in the STEM building.

Her lips warmed under his.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—she was smiling again. So bright that he thought he might have to squint. And he said, "This doesn't mean you're off the hook, you know. With studying."

"Of course not." With a serious expression and a decisive nod, she pulled him back down and kissed him again.

And again.

And when Clara came back with the photo album, she just rolled her eyes, said, "oh, _finally,_ " and then wandered off, presumably to eat more ice cream and congratulate herself on her excellent matchmaking skills.

She really was a very good friend.

And he really was quite glad Rose was so bad at maths.


	47. Emergency Program 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Ten and nine fighting over who is Rose's favorite."  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose, a little sprinkle of Nine x Rose

She overhears them a little while before she usually goes to bed, a time when she can most often be found in the media room, channel surfing or hunkered down with a 25th century Hallmark movie. But tonight, she’d gone through her cup of tea faster than usual, and now she’s in search of another.

On slippered feet, Rose tiptoes past the entrance to the console room.

And it’s not that she’s _trying_ to eavesdrop, it’s just that—

Well, she’s been thinking about that voice a _lot_ lately. About how much simpler it used to be, back when she’d understood the Doctor to be something other than he actually is. When they used to flirt and she felt like it could mean something, maybe, down the line. Before that mess at the school, and Reinette, and the general impression she’d eventually gathered—with all her tragic human slowness, over time and through layers and layers of hints—that he didn’t precisely feel things the way she did.

Basically, she’s been nostalgic.

And when she hears him…

Well, she can’t help but listen.

-

“You’re being an idiot,” the hologram announces, “which must be why you’ve activated me: Emergency Program 9.”

The Doctor sighs, and the cable he’s holding spits sparks in protest of the increased oxygen flow. “Blimey, I forgot how rude I used to be.”

“Used to be?”

Oh, yes, the hologram is _very_ witty. How could he have forgotten?

“Now, before you think about turning me off and going back to your sulking—”

“I don’t _sulk._ ”

“Yes, you do. Now, shut up while I ask you a few simple questions to assess the exact manner in which you’ve been an idiot.” The hologram shifts on its feet and crosses its arms, both of which are habits he can distinctly remember having, but that no longer seem to fit. Like that leather jacket, which hangs melancholically in his wardrobe room. “Have you damaged, lost, fatally wounded, or otherwise annoyed the TARDIS?”

The flashing tips of the cables in his hand notwithstanding, the Doctor sighs and shakes his head.

“I can’t see you, by the way. Please give a verbal response.”

“No,” he grumps.

“Is that ‘no’ as in, ‘I haven’t damaged, lost, fatally wounded, or otherwise annoyed the TARDIS’? Or is that ‘no’ as in, ‘I refuse to give a verbal response’?”

“The former.” He is beginning to regret hitting that button, irrespective of it feeling necessary at the time.

“Right. Next question: Have you damaged, lost, fatally wounded, or otherwise annoyed a monarch, ruler, dictator, etcetera, who is currently holding you at knife-, gun-, wand-, or laser-point?”

“No.”

“Fantastic. Next question: Have you damaged, lost, fatally wounded, or otherwise annoyed yourself?”

_What the hell does that mean?_ “I’m not sure.”

“How can you _not be sure?_ ” the hologram asks, sounding faintly disgusted. “It’s a simple question.”

“It’s _not,_ ” he replies. His hackles are up now and there’s nothing to do about it, so he forcefully starts to solder the cables back together for a distraction. Through gritted teeth, he says, “Let’s skip that one.”

“Fine. Next question: Have you damaged, lost, fatally wounded, or otherwise annoyed Rose?”

The sound of her name—in that old voice, no less—makes something twinge inside him, somewhere in the space between his hearts. He’d been so confident, that one, that she’d hang around forever and it had only been once _he’d_ changed that she had begun to change herself. And that he’d begun to question it.

It was hard to put his finger on. Only it seemed like, where before she was as comfortably settled into their relationship as one could be, she was now probing for something, testing the waters, and he never knew how to deal with it. What did she _want?_

He realizes that he’s clamped the cables too hard and that there’s no flow between them. No chance of repairing the breakage if he doesn’t ease his grip. He loosens his fingers.

“Do I have to remind you that I can’t see you?” the hologram clips out. “Please give a verbal response.”

“All right, just give me a tic. Honestly, you really are quite rude. I can’t imagine why she liked you.”

At this, the hologram ripples a little bit—shivering, almost. And then it says, “Neither do I, mate. But I s’pose I’m lucky she did.”

“Yes, I suppose we are.”

There’s a faint hum of electricity under his hands, he can feel it almost as clearly as he hears it, though it would be undetectable to all but the most attuned of senses. The hologram, whether to fill the silence and follow its programming or for some other, indeterminate reason, speaks up again. “Based on your lack of response, I am assuming this program activation has something to do with Rose. Am I correct in assuming you have been an idiot to her?”

The Doctor hesitates. “Yes.”

“Of course you have,” the hologram sighs. “Well, you know what to do, then. _You_ programmed me, after all. Apologize, and tell her you love her.” The Doctor nearly jumps at the word. _Love._ How easily the hologram—the old version of himself—can speak it. Like it’s nothing at all.

“It’s not exactly something I can apologize for,” he complains. “It’s more of an… everything’s messed up now and I don’t know how to fix it… thing.”

Once again, the hologram ripples. And it says, in the exact same tone of voice—so similar that he can be sure it’s the same sound byte played again: “Tell her you love her.”

Silence falls over the console room. There is nothing but the steady hum of life, of the TARDIS, all around him. And the faint static of the hologram as it flickers and ripples, susceptible as it is to the changing energies in the room.

“Do I have you remind you that I can’t see you?” the hologram repeats. “Please give a verbal res—”

But the Doctor rips out several cables. And the hologram disappears. In the new, ringing silence, he hears the faint sound of footsteps. They seem like they might be walking away. Or it could just be a trick of his ears.

He sighs. “I can’t.”

-

Three days later, it appears. It’s a seemingly random glitch, like the program had been slowly rebooting and was only now able to display again. He’s standing there at the console, his hands spread across several buttons while Rose lingers on the other side, clinging for dear life. She’s used to his rather bumpy lift-offs.

“Tell her you love her,” says the hologram of his old self, eyes burning with unnatural green light. “Tell her you—”

He finds the switch—it takes him a few seconds and he has to reach halfway round to Rose’s side of the console, but he manages. He slaps the big, red button with the palm of his hand, and the hologram crackles and fizzes away.

Rose, of course, is simply staring, her mouth open in surprise.

“What was that?” she asks, and he can hear her suspicion. It’s laced in every syllable.

“Nothing,” he lies.

-

He’s beginning to think the TARDIS is playing a very cruel joke on him. He’s actually sleeping for once when he feels something on the edge of his awareness, like the usual low-level telepathy of the timeship has had a spike of activity.

His eyes open, and in the corner of the room, he sees himself. His old self. Standing, green. Arms crossed irritably over a broad chest. “I’m beginning to think you don’t love her as much as I do,” it says. _That’s_ not part of the script—and he should know, he wrote it. The TARDIS must be getting clever.

“ _You_ never said it!” He doesn’t know why he’s arguing with himself. Not even himself, really. Rubbing his eyes, the Doctor rolls out of bed and starts padding toward the console room, his ephemeral hologram trailing behind like a sullen, cranky ghost.

“She never asked me to,” it replies.

“She never asked me either!”

But that isn’t strictly true.

_“Imagine watching that happen to someone who you—”_

_“What, Doctor?”_

The memory fades from behind his eyes.

The hologram is unperturbed. “Tell her you love her.”

He stomps into the console room, heedless of grating that bruises the soft arches of his feet. He ought to get slippers, he thinks. He ought to get some carpeting in here. He ought to tear up the whole undercarriage and replace the bloody thing with—

“Tell her you love her.”

The Doctor starts to feel ill when he presses the button and nothing happens.

But he feels nothing but sweet relief when he takes his screwdriver—not the sonic, an _actual_ screwdriver—and pulls up the red button, exposing the wiring underneath. He cuts it, and the picture fades.

He sighs, and he goes back to bed.

-

“Tell her you love her,” he says.

In his dreams, he is kneeling on the frigid floor of Satellite 5, his knees feeling thousands of years old. Like they might crumble beneath him. And Rose is glowing—all over, not just her eyes. Glowing so gold that it slips out through her pores, spilling over her skin like oil. She is crying slick, golden tears that leave a trail over her cheeks.

He could get to her, if he could just stand up. If he could just—

“I’m beginning to think you don’t love—”

But he _does._

“Apologize, and tell her—”

He’s _trying,_ he wants to say.

“She—can’t see you. Please give a verbal response. Please—Tell her—”

He wakes up coated in sweat, and he decides he won’t be sleeping again for a long time.

-

The Doctor looks tired. They’ve been going non-stop for weeks now, and the effort of pretending she doesn’t know why is taking its toll. But what else can she do, except run with him?

He’s just gone down to get some bit or bob from his workroom when she feels this tingle on her arms—the hair standing up on end, like she’s being watched. She goes suddenly, perfectly still. And then, she hears the sound of static.

“Rose,” it says. In that _voice._

When she turns, he’s there. Her old Doctor. Only not. Everything is green and flat and faded. Nothing to touch or smell or smile at. He’s only an echo.

But still, she finds herself stepping closer. “Doctor,” she says, the word soft.

“Rose,” it says. And then a fizz, a flare. More static. “He—” and then something garbled, like listening through a tape being played at impossible speed, “love—’s—you.”

She’s standing close, close enough now that she would be able to smell the gunpowder and leather and tea on him. If he were real. Close enough to reach out and take his hand. “I know you do—or, he does,” she says, and the words make her tired to say, because she does _not_ know. Not really. She can only guess, and hope.

“Rose,” he repeats. “ _Rose._ ” It’s laden with warmth, the way only he ever said it. Says it.

“Leave him be, please. He’s exhausted.”

But the hologram shifts on its feet, crosses its arms. The perfect impression of the domineering Time Lord he used to think himself. “Tell her you love her,” it says forcefully.

Behind her, she hears him say, “Rose?”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t love her as much as I do,” says the hologram. “Apologize, and tell her you love her.”

“Fine!”

She turns to tell him it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to, but he looks awful. He looks so exhausted. It’s a matter of instinct to dart across the console room and wrap her arms around his middle, burying her face in his chest. She knows he’s a little bit telepathic, so she tries to pour out every warm feeling she has. Contentment, love, acceptance, forgiveness, joy, relief. Everything, everything. She breathes steadily into him, _willing_ him to understand.

She feels his warm breath fan out over the top of her head, and his arms slip up and around her. He pulls her tighter, closer. She can feel the tension in his ribs.

“Rose,” he chokes. “I—I lo—I do, I’m sorry, I—”

If she didn’t know better, know _him,_ she’d think him possessed by something, by some being with its claws around his throat. He sounds so pained and strained, and though she doesn’t know why—she’ll never _know_ why—she believes in him. In the words he can’t quite manage to say.

“Tell her you love her,” she hears, and she loves that voice so much—more than almost anything—but just then, she wants it to _stop._

“Enough!” she cries, turning over her shoulder to stare at the hologram. “That’s enough. He has. All right? He has, and I know.” She turns back and buries her face in the lapels of his coat, inhaling the smell of strawberry jam and dusty books and home. “I know,” she repeats.

There is a moment of near-silence. Only static, and the Doctor’s hearts thumping against her ear.

“Good.”

And then the static sound dies.

“Rose,” he rasps, and the words buzz against her cheeks. “I promise—I—”

She interrupts him, unable to take the ragged sound of his voice. “I said I know. And I do. I know you love me.” His arms flex around her when she says the word. _Love._ How easily it comes to some, and not others. She pulls her cheek away from his chest and looks up; his face is blurred with her tears and she has to blink a few times before she can see him clearly.

His expression is open. Raw and open and—

_Loving._

Terribly so.

She pushes up onto the tips of her toes, balancing her weight against him, and drops a kiss on his lips. He reacts so quickly that it makes her head spin, hands sinking into her hair, brushing the apples of her cheeks, cradling the back of her neck. They are everywhere, everywhere, and they are saying what he cannot.

She kisses him until she’s breathless, and then a little more after that. When their lips part, he is smiling. “Let’s go watch some telly,” she says, and he nods, and he squeezes her fingers. What he isn’t saying pours out through his hands.

That he loves her.

And she knows.


	48. Triplicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: A-rose-by-any-other-doctor  
> Prompt: "For the promps thing: eight andnRose have a telepathic bond but have never met, charley finds this hilarious"  
> Pairing: Eight x Charley x Rose
> 
> note: please forgive any mistakes, i am tired and didn't do any real editing.

There is a man standing in the middle of a very nice, very spacious timeship—if he does say so himself—and he is holding a cup of tea. The cup of tea has just been gently pushed into his hands by a very nice young woman, with blonde hair and delicate features and great big eyes that look at him in a way that he hasn’t quite decided whether or not he likes. She is called Charley. And the tea she just gave him is warm, but not hot. This is important, because the tea is about to leave the confines of his hands (as well as its cup), and if the tea _were_ hot, it would change the following sequence of events quite dramatically.

He smells the bittersweet bergamot and the fragrant orange blossoms, and he takes a deep breath, and then the man—who, it should perhaps be mentioned, is not actually a man—smiles. And then he feels something sweet and tender inside his head, like a flower unfolding. It is such a mild and soft sensation that he almost thinks it is a direct reaction to the scent of the tea. He _does_ like tea quite a lot; perhaps a bit more than is usual. However, he does _not_ like tea enough to let it physically inhabit his mind.

And that is what is happening: he is being _inhabited._

Granted, he is not completely unused to the sensation of being inhabited, because he is a Time Lord, and he is occasionally subject to a bit of friendly (or unfriendly) telepathy. But not like this. Never by someone who feels faint and soft and peach-colored, like bleary eyes right before they blink open. Never by someone who feels so _young._

It is like a finger stroking delicately over the gray matter of his brain.

And several things happen at once. Primarily, he drops his tea, and as the porcelain shatters on the ground and his trousers are spattered with a warm—luckily not hot—splash of liquid, he smiles. It is one of those real smiles that he only wears on absolutely spectacular days, when things have gone so completely _right_ that the expression can’t help bursting out of him, bright and sunny.

“Hello,” he says, aloud, because it seems strange to begin a first conversation any other way, even if he _is_ beginning a conversation with a person who he cannot see or hear or touch, because they are _inside of his brain._ “Who are you, then?”

-

Charley, naturally, is confused—both by his long fingers spreading wide, as if he’s waving to something unseen, and by the tea that now pools under the heels of her boots. She looks down at the puddle of rapidly-cooling liquid, and then back up at the man before her. His eyes are bright and blue and sparkling; this is an expression that she _likes_ , but cannot trust. And so, because she is a human and the man in front of her is not to be trusted, she frowns. “Doctor?”

A moment passes. The Doctor’s face remains sort of fixed, like he’s daydreaming. She begins to wonder about the tea, whether someone shouldn’t clean it up. It looks as if the _someone_ will have to be her, given the Doctor’s rapt expression and complete immobility.

“Yes, that’s my name.” He pauses. “That was Charley.”

Another moment of stillness. She is beginning to get concerned now, truly. “Doctor, what’s _happening?_ ”

“I know, it’s mad,” he answers, though it isn’t clear whether he’s answering her question or responding to his own interior conversation. He does talk to himself sometimes, Charley reasons, just normally not to the detriment of the china. So, whatever is happening must be quite beyond the ordinary. The tea has now spread into the vague shape of the continent of Africa in miniature, and it is growing larger every second. With a sigh, Charley hurries out of the room in search of towels.

When she returns, the Doctor is still standing stock-still—it’s almost alarming, actually. If it weren’t for his steady breathing, she would take him for a mere statue of himself. And the tea is still on the floor. She drops to her knees and begins mopping it up just in time to hear him say—in that reverent tone of new discovery, in the way he says the names of new worlds, a voice reserved for moments of near-religious fervor, if Time Lords _did_ believe in gods, which she can’t be sure of—just one word.

“Rose.”

-

It gets easier after that. And funnier. Because Rose—that is, the girl inside the Doctor’s head—is quite teasing and clever and, to his pleasure, very much _human_. Which makes what she’s doing utterly impossible, and all the more interesting for it. Her telepathic touch is gentle, but it’s also quite persistent. There is rarely a time when he cannot feel some part of her lingering at the edge of his thoughts, and he wonders if he feels that way to her, as well.

_You do,_ Rose replies. _It’s like you’re sort of… just on the other side of a wall, only the wall is in my head. Does that make sense? Jimmy thinks I’m mad, of course, but that’s what it feels like._

He likes the ways she has of expressing things; it’s always different than how he might describe them. Everything about her is different than the way he is, really, and even the way Charley is, though he could credit much of that to Rose being very much earthbound. Charley is timeless in the way he is—like him, she lives in holes in the fabric of time, woven only loosely among them and constantly sticking out like a loose thread, begging to be pulled.

The metaphor extends fantastically far. There is a flexibility in the weft, and sometimes things—people—fall through. Like Rose, falling impossibly into their timeline and into his head.

_Jimmy? That’s your boyfriend,_ he guesses. She’s mentioned him a few times, usually in passing.

Charley looks up from her book, as if she knows that Rose is there, or that he is thinking about the differences between herself and Rose, or something else eerie like that. She’s quite brilliant, his Charley, and perceptive. Her eyes narrow, and there is a little smile that plucks at the edges of her lips. “Is she back again?”

_Sure am,_ Rose answers, though Charley can’t hear and it only muddies the conversation. The Doctor has to blink once, forcefully, to clear his head enough to speak. “She is.”

_You could tell her what you’re thinking, you know,_ Rose offers, and when he doesn’t answer, he feels the mental equivalent of a huff. The clearing out of mild irritation through the lungs and mouth that he cannot see, and can only visualize in the academic sense. She clarifies. _That you fancy her._

_That’s ridiculous,_ he manages to think back. It’s easier when he says the words out loud, but sometimes—when they’re having conversations like this one, or when it’s an inconvenient time to be muttering to himself—he can clarify his thoughts enough to just… _think back_ at her. Rose can’t quite manage that yet; when she attempts to, it all comes out at once, thoughts shoving each other out of the way, word choices selected and discarded, all with a simultaneity that would make a lesser being’s head spin to keep up with. He can only barely just manage. And so, she is relegated to only talking to him when she can do so _aloud._

_It’s not ridiculous. You think about her constantly._

_Yes,_ he replies coolly, _because she lives with me._ He would tack on the bit about them living together in a little wooden box that travels through time and space and is substantially larger—one could even say “infinite”—on the inside, but he’s still working out exactly how much information Rose can handle. So far, he has tried to limit himself to passably human-y thoughts and observations, lest she realize that she’s talking to an alien from the future inside her head and declare herself to be mad.

_She lives with you, but you’re not a couple?_ The tone of Rose’s thoughts are slightly confused, and also gently amused, and he would usually take that particular combination for something like condescension. But she just seems interested.

Which is interesting.

Rose really _is_ very interesting.

He looks up, though he’s not sure why. Perhaps he’s afraid that the bare fraction of a thought has manifested on his face, where Charley might see. Strangely, he isn’t worried about whether or not Rose knows she’s interesting to him.

_Of course you aren’t, because I’m not a real person to you. Yet._

It’s a good observation, one he only sort of makes note of, because Charley’s eyes are still on him, wide and observant. One of her brows is slowly, gently arching into an ashy blonde curve.

_She’s blonde!_ Rose thinks happily. _So am I._ And then, a moment later: _I wish I could see pictures in your head. I think it would be a lot more interesting than just talking._

“Are you saying I’m not interesting?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he remembers he’s supposed to be thinking them, and Charley’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He watches her lips press together, whitening her pink lips, as she holds back a laugh. “Charley’s laughing at me,” he adds nonchalantly, because why bother pretending this is something other than what it is? It is an awkward, three-way conversation that only two parties are privy to. It would be impolite not to fill Charley in.

_I think she fancies you, too,_ Rose says matter-of-factly. _And I think you’re both terribly interesting. I just wish I could see you._ There is something like longing in her voice, and the Doctor wants to flinch back from it. He hasn’t told her where he is, because describing it would be impossible. And he hasn’t explained why he won’t come to see her—why that would probably be a very bad idea—because that is similarly not possible.

“Tell her I say hello, then,” Charley says, before glancing down at her book. Her smile is unreadable and faint. And it echoes, is redoubled, by the impression of a smile inside his head. Something like a waving hand and a giggle. Rose and Charley, he realizes, are far too similar. They both like taking the mickey out of him, and their laughter sounds—to him—like two different strains within the same song. They weave and twist together in a way that makes his head spin.

He believes that this connection is going to be much more dangerous than he’d initially thought.

-

When she enters the console room, he is reading by the fire—or she would assume he's reading, only his eyes have taken on a glazed appearance and he seems to have little enough interest in turning pages. His vacant eyes, his lax limbs tell a different story than the one in his book.

He's probably talking to Rose; he tends to get a bit distracted when she appears. Not that she can really _blame_ him for it. Rose has become nearly as dear to Charley as she has to the Time Lord who she frequently inhabits. Unreal as her presence might feel, she is plainly a good, pleasant sort of person, with a spirit meant for laughter and a natural tendency toward being likeable. Someone well worth knowing.

Charley approaches his chair with care and lets her hand fall softly to his shoulder. The velvet is soft under her fingers, heated by the nearby fire that crackles happily in its hearth. He doesn’t move, or react in any way—not even to blink. "Doctor?"

His eyes snap up to hers, plainly startled. "Ah. Charley. I didn't hear you coming." And then, oddly, his eyes drop back to his book, alight with determination. It seems he intends to go back to reading. Or pretending to.

"Give Rose my best."

At the sound of Rose's name, his concentration wavers. His blue eyes flick up to hers with an odd, rather unemotional quality. His eyes are truly the windows to his soul; she has noticed this in her time spent at his traveling companion and, she believes, close friend. But there is something shuttered about them tonight.

"She's not here, actually. She's gone out," he stiffly clarifies. "With that boy she's always on about."

Confused, she asks, "Mickey?" They both have heard a good bit about the boy who is one of Rose’s closest friends.

"No. Jimmy." He says the name like he might say “garbage disposal” or “sludge” or any other word with unpleasant, rather dirty implications.

"Right," Charley nods. "Her boyfriend." The term feels unnatural on her tongue. She’s never had cause to apply it to anyone before, only ever having read it in some of the more modern books aboard the TARDIS. It feels shamefully casual as a descriptor for any sort of romantic relationship, but she likes to think of herself as adaptable.

The Doctor's reply is only an unclear, rather grumpy sort of sound and another attempt at looking busy with his reading. She smiles to herself when she sees what it is— _The Time Machine._ Of course. He’s been meaning to read it for years, he told her once.

“Yes, he’s her boyfriend.” The Doctor pauses, turning a page most emphatically. “But I don’t trust him.”

Several things occur to her at once: Firstly, that the Doctor appears to be _sulking._ And secondly, that he appears to be doing so because he is _jealous._ She has seen him this way before—he is awfully possessive of the things he perceives to belong to him, and that does occasionally include people; it has often included Charley herself. But there is something amusing about it now, given that he has never met Rose before and, in fact, seems quite determined _not_ to meet her.

“Doctor,” she says, tone mild, “I believe you’re jealous.”

At this, he snaps the book shut and launches up out of his chair in order to pace across the room. “I am _not_ jealous, Charley. I am intimately familiar with the sensation, and I can say with certainty that I am not experiencing it now. But I am… suspicious of this young man’s motives.”

“Motives?”

“Toward Rose!” he cries, throwing his arms into the air. “You know that Rose can hear your voice through my mind, of course, when we’re talking and I’m not consciously attempting to filter out the sounds from my environment?” She takes a small bit of issue to being deemed part of his “environment,” but instead Charley nods. “Well, Rose has similar experiences with this—with her _boyfriend,_ you see? I can hear him when he speaks to her unless she’s working quite hard to block it out. And she’s only human, you know, so she’s not always able to block him out.” His footsteps speed up, wearing a familiar pattern into the rug near the hearth.

Charley feels her own worry rise. It is occurring to her in this moment that, while she considers herself rather familiar with the parties in question, she has only received a rather curated image of Rose via the Doctor’s willingness to communicate with her. “Is he…” She can hardly bring herself to ask. “Is he cruel to her?”

The Doctor’s eyes flash. “On occasion.”

“And yet—you think you ought not intervene?” She tries very hard to keep her tone from sounding accusatory.

“She hasn’t asked!” he cries, and with a dramatic sigh, he falls backwards into his chair once more. His cheeks are unnaturally flushed, and his hair mussed from raking his hands through it. “But… Charley, I’m not sure. I don’t _know._ ”

She wants to arch her eyebrow. This is a rare occurrence: the Time Lord _she_ knows tends to blunder into situations with unwarranted confidence. But at the listless droop of his shoulders, she understands that the situation is certainly more complicated than it appears to her. Something in Rose’s thoughts must be holding him back. And if she prefers them not to come, or if he thinks it would be dangerous, they ought not.

-

Still, the thought doesn’t leave her entirely. The days pass, weeks—adventures are had, uprisings aided, jail cells occupied. And though Rose is a frequent and amusing companion, Charley cannot bring herself to forget that night, and the look of fear in the Doctor’s eyes.

-

“So, Rose,” Charley begins one day, after she’s been informed that Rose has slipped back into his thoughts. They are walking, arm in arm, through a market that is almost wholly different from one a person might find on earth, and while he is quite interested in shopping, Charley seems _much_ more interested in probing inside his head. “Tell me about what school is like,” she commands, grinning up at him. This is one of her favorite activities, it seems: learning what she can about the girl inside his head.

To be seen, but not spoken to—to be a conduit—is an odd sensation, and not one he particularly enjoys. But she seems to notice his hesitation, and softly corrects herself.

“I mean—Doctor, if you are willing. I’m terribly curious.”

_It’s not that interesting,_ Rose hedges. _I’m not that interesting. I’m not sure why she keeps asking about me._

“Of course you’re interesting,” the Doctor replies. With a glance at Charley, he adds, “She claims to be quite dull, which I don’t believe. I don’t think a dull person could take up residence in my mind.”

“Certainly not!” Charley laughs.

_Her laugh sounds so lovely._ That longing is back. He can hear it in the timbre of her thoughts, bouncing about inside his mind and confusing his own feelings with hers.

“She says you have a lovely laugh,” the Doctor faithfully reports.

And Charley—well, she blushes, pink and pretty under her sunhat. Humans are so strange sometimes, he wonders. After all, he is only reporting the truth of what he himself thinks, even if he is not currently the one thinking it. He places his hand over Charley’s, where it rests in the curve of his arm. Her skin is warmed by this planet’s binary suns: a pleasant change after their latest series of cold-weather adventures. It’s a very distracting sensation—so much so that he nearly forgets that he’s supposed to be talking to Rose. Nearly, but not quite. He cannot ever quite forget her.

She gives the impression of a smug smile. But it is wistful, too.

He feels a strange sense of balance when all three of them are together, conversing. Even if they can’t _be_ together in the physical or linear sense, cannot be in one another’s presence in the same way real friends could, he still finds peace in the knowledge that Rose and Charley like one another. Neither is threatened by the other; there is no devastating clash of personalities. If anything, they seem to be even closer than is warranted by the rather… indirect nature of their friendship.

“I’m sure her laugh is beautiful,” Charley says, breaking up his thoughts. He’s honestly surprised that Rose hadn’t done so before—she’s usually the first to take advantage of his musings about his companion. But she seems oddly quiet, subdued.

“It is,” he confirms absent-mindedly as he seeks out that feeling—that warm bloom in the corner of his mind. It is still there, and yet, it feels as if it’s receded. The thought fills him with an odd, gasping sensation. Panic. He cannot get enough air. “It’s very bright. Unapologetic, you know. You’d like it.”

“I’m sure I would, but—” and he realizes that they have come to a halt in the middle of the bazaar. The crowd parts around them, like water over stone, as he remains stiff and motionless. Searching his mind. Charley’s fingers are white-knuckled under his, and she is looking up at him with a worried expression that he has only seen a few times before. And never during good times. “Doctor, what’s happened? Is something wrong with Rose? Are _you_ all right?”

“She’s… sad.”

_No, I’m fine,_ Rose says. But her mental voice sounds off, stifled, like she’s speaking into her hands. And watery, too, though he isn’t sure how, exactly, he knows that. He’s never heard her crying before. Does she cry often? His hearts pang in sympathy. _Don’t worry about me, Doctor,_ Rose insists. _I’ve just… had a fight with my boyfriend, that’s all. And I had to move out, but—hang on. Hearts? As in, plural?_

“Oh. No, that’s nothing. Just one heart,” he corrects rapidly, hoping she won’t know that he’s lying.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Charley mutters. “Doctor, it’s time. You’ve got to tell her who—what—we are.”

_What_ are _you?_ Rose sounds intensely curious.

The Doctor blinks, an effort to get his thoughts straight. “Rose,” he says calmly, “are you all right? Has someone hurt you?” That is the important conversation here, not an analysis of what organs he has and doesn’t have.

She is hesitant; he can feel it. “No,” Rose says, but she is lying. Whether the hurt is internal or external, he cannot tell, but he finds that the distinction isn’t important. What _is_ important is the sudden feeling gathering inside of him, fragments of something he tries not to let himself experience too often, for there is a destructive element to indulging in it: anger.

It beats through him like blood, filling his limbs with an unnatural energy—cortisol, adrenaline. He can break them down, understands them intimately. They’ve gotten him through more situations than he cares to admit. Fight or flight.

“She’s hurt,” he says, and the words are gritty, like grinding stones between his teeth.

Charley’s expression falls. He can almost feel her genuine worry, her despair. But there is also a fragment of knowing, too. As if she’d expected this, or seen something he couldn’t. He watches her expression carefully, trying to tune out Rose’s protestations in his head.

_No,_ Rose is insisting, _it isn’t like that. It’s not_ —

“What can we do?” Charley asks. “Can you find her?”

“I can.” He sounds utterly confident, though he knows he shouldn’t be. He doesn’t _actually_ have much to go on, in regards to locating the mysterious girl who had so intertwined herself with him and his life. However, there _were_ clues: her accent, her vocabulary and use of slang—South London, probably mid-2000s. It was something. He turned on his heel, pulling Charley along with him as they made for the TARDIS again. “Rose, what year is it?”

_What?_

“Tell me the year, love. Please.” His voice is gentle, and a bit pleading, and so unlike himself that Charley’s mouth falls open. He is half surprised himself.

_It’s 2004. What do you…_ But then she stops. He can feel her dawning understanding. _Time Lord. You kept trying not to think those words, over and over, but you couldn’t quite block them out._

“Yes.”

_You’re an alien,_ she hypothesizes.

“Yes.”

“What’s she saying?” Charley hisses, pushing up on the tips of her toes, leaning in, as if her proximity will clarify the conversation she’s only partially privy to. He wraps his arm around her and walks faster.

_And you’re coming to get me._

He fumbles the TARDIS key into the lock. “Yes.”

Charley follows, close on his heels. “Doctor? What’s happening?” He has no answer, so instead he squeezes her hand in his. A silent plea to be patient with him.

He hears the hitch of Rose’s laugh—subdued, choked like a sob, and the possibility that he might be doing the wrong thing is suddenly overwhelming. The doubt clouds his vision as he stumbles towards the time rotor. “Rose?”

_So, you’re saying… I’m going to be abducted by an alien._ And there it is. The smile. The warmth and sweetness, fanning out over his mind like the soft cover of trees. He can feel her amusement, her growing pleasure and excitement. He can feel so _much_ , and he wonders how it’s possible; they only grow more connected with each day that passes. Will that still be true, when they meet?

“Well, I was hoping you’d like to come along of your own will,” he says, lips twitching. “But we’d be happy to abduct you, if you’d prefer.”

Beside him, Charley laughs. The sound is fractured, deeply emotional, and when he looks up at her, he can see tears in her eyes. She is happy with this decision. He realizes that they had always been heading this direction; in the end, it was always going to happen this way. He couldn’t go all his lives without knowing the human who could spark such a beautiful, fragile connection, spinning it seemingly out of nothing. The Doctor feels as if he might burst, and that is a rare feeling indeed.

“And Charley’s not an alien. She’s human, like you.”

_Well, that’s a relief. I was wondering how aliens could be blonde._

He beams—he can’t help it. It’s the same smile he’d worn when he’d first discovered her inside his mind: an expression of complete happiness, of such overwhelming joy that he cannot contain it. He can feel her reflecting it. It’s in the warmth she sheds, the subtle glow of her presence. It is _immensely_ distracting. No, it is in _triplicate._ Even without the emotional bond, his Charley—his sensitive, wonderful companion—seems aware of the depth, the importance of this decision.

But there are calculations to be made. Buttons to press, whirligigs to twist and spin, telepathic intentions to set. “Rose, just one moment. I have to concentrate. Charley,” he says without looking up from his tasks, “I need to borrow your fingers. Here.” And he presses them down in the necessary pattern.

She is still warm. She is still smiling. He can feel the joy radiating off of her like steam from a mug of tea.

Everything is going to be fine.

“Rose Tyler,” he says. He feels that stirring he always gets when he steps onto a planet for the first time—that indefatigable sense of adventure. “We’re coming to get you.” And all around him, the TARDIS roars to life.


	49. The winds of longing in their sails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Lotsofthinkythoughts  
> Prompt: "Pirate Captain Charley Pollard and her first mate Rose Tyler ‘kidnap’ nobleman Eight. Shenanigans (and flirting) ensue."  
> Pairing: Eight x Charley x Rose

She likes to watch her wife work.

The way she bends over her nautical charts, fingers stained with ink. The way she eagerly learns where each member of the crew is from, and if she doesn't see their homeland on the map, if she isn't familiar with the place—she will find it. Mark it. The triumph in her smile as white parchment is lost to the dark stain of discovered land, of conquered sea.

Rose has a head for navigation—always has. She can get a ship where it needs to go, plot a course based on the stars alone. But she likes to make sense of it all on paper, when she can.

And Captain Charlotte Pollard watches.

She could not ask for a better wife. Nor a better First Mate.

-

"Where are we going next, Charley?"

Rose asks this with her head resting in her wife's lap, her hair falling like liquid gold over faded breeches. How different they are: where Charley keeps her own hair cropped, hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat and it's violet plumage, Rose's is long. When she sleeps, it spills over her shoulder in a glowing braid. She herself looks as bright as any treasure.

It is a quiet night—calm seas, calm crew. It has been long enough since their last victory that they are no longer eager to celebrate, and yet not so long that they are restless for another fight. Peace, the rarest of weather patterns, reigns over them all like a gentle mist. And a deeper peace—one that Charley only finds in Rose’s company—resides in the cabin they share. Captain's Quarters, still but for the gentle rocking of the ocean waves.

She runs a hand through Rose's hair. "I thought—maybe we could go home again." She doesn't say it like a command, though she could. Almost certainly, she should. She's known for weeks now that it was time. If they want to strike back at that miserable, damp little island that had borne them, they cannot wait.

Rose's movements pause, fingers half twined with Charley's free hand. "You want to hit the heart of the Navy," Rose observes. "You think we have a chance."

"More than. I've heard they have civilians onboard. Nobles."

Her wife snorts, clearly unimpressed. "Why?"

"Because that is what they _do_ , love _._ They insert themselves where they are not wanted, in order to exert their fragile power over those beneath them." Charley can feel her fingers flexing, her grip too tight on Rose's hand and Rose's hair, and she forces herself to release them—and with them, the anger that boils up inside. That life is far into her past, she reminds herself. It cannot touch her. "We can do what we’ve always meant to, Rose."

Her wife smiles. "Hit them where it hurts." And then she reclaims Charley's fingers, pulling them to her pink mouth and bestowing a kiss.

She wants to laugh—after years of bloodshed, of storms, of lack and deprivation, Rose can be as sweet and soft as the blooms for which she is named. Thorned, yes, and fierce. But there is a tenderness to her which can never be entirely weeded out, not by man or sea.

"Aye." Charley says, voice reverent. "Hit them where it hurts."

-

"Ouch— _ow,_ that bloody _hurts!_ "

That is, by and large, the point. Nonetheless, Captain Pollard signals for her crew to unhand the man who has become their unwitting prisoner. It was a split second decision, the choice between execution and capture landing like a coin with a particular side up. She hadn't much cared either way, but now she is beginning to wonder.

He is a chatty thing, and that’s not entirely welcome. His accents are too familiar; they remind her unpleasantly of home.

"Honestly," he's saying, voice impossibly clear and articulate, "I'm _on your side._ There's no need for such—such violence!"

She can hear Rose's laugh, light as a bird catching an updraft, soaring over the sounds of everyone else. "You haven't even seen violence yet, mate," she teases, her voice so warm and genuine that even the man seems inclined to laugh with her. She has a way about her: the people around her follow her lead. When she laughs, they laugh. When she shows mercy, they are inclined to do the same.

It is she who steps forward to secure his bonds while the rest of the crew recedes, though barely. Their curiosity keeps them close.

"I can well believe you're on our side," Captain Pollard says, the sound of her voice bringing any lingering chatter to a halt. She cannot help but be pleased at the way her crew parts around her. Rose is loved and it suits her well, but as the Captain, she is respected.

The prisoner comes into view: a mess of curly hair, unkempt and brittle with sea-spray. Rose has tightened his bonds, and his hands hang limply before him. His face is chiseled and clear, undeniably noble.

"I imagine, sir," she says, "that you are on whatever side offers the best chance of saving your hide."

"You must be Captain Pollard," the prisoner says, giving a deferential nod. But when he looks up, there is a distinct sparkle in his eyes, which are bluer than the sea. His overtures at respect are, perhaps, not quite genuine.

"Must I be?" she asks, arching a brow.

The man—she'll have to learn his name soon—quirks a smile. There is blood on his mouth, whether from an intentional strike or the chaos of the battle, and when he grins, she can see how it stains his teeth. "I could tell—by the accent."

She doesn't let him—or the crew—see her anger, though Rose can almost certainly see it anyway. The _presumption_ of the man, to remind her what she has fought so long to escape. She has scoured her skin with years of salt water, and yet it seems, she can never quite escape her own noble birth. Rose shifts closer, fingertips outstretched. Captain Pollard lets them brush her arm and takes comfort.

The man seems not to notice her silence, adding, "And by your crew. I had often heard tell of a ship run by two women, bonded by love as well as loyalty, and their growing crew of misfits." His eyes flit back to Rose, and he gives a wink. "I was curious."

"So you attempted to stow away," Rose supplies. Closer up, the Captain can hear the underlying rasp of her wife’s voice—she is hoarse from shouting over the sound of gunfire and cannon blast all morning. No one could possibly mistake her for a noble; it had been what first made her so invaluable in recruiting. Nobody wanted to work for the very sort of person they sought to escape. But they had both proven themselves more than their upbringing, in the end.

The man nods, one lank curl falling over his face. He is not a large man—there is no height or bulk to him. But she thinks she can detect a wiry strength in his arms, a clever look to his fingers. They can make use of him.

"Since you are so eager to sail with us, we will make a sailor of you, whether you will or not. Jack!" Captain Pollard barks, all business.

"Aye, Captain?" The man appears at her side. He's been onboard nearly as long as Rose, and one could scarcely ask for a better—or more good-tempered—crewman. He is grinning as he awaits her orders.

"Show him the ropes." She allows herself a slim smile as she looks back at the man.

She doesn't have to see him to hear the smile in his voice as he answers. "Aye, sir."

-

The man—who eventually introduces himself with the uninteresting name of John—becomes a member of the crew about as seamlessly as one could expect. He is an impressive storyteller, always willing to bend someone's ear. And at least half of them seem to contain _some_ kernel of truth.

Within a week, he earns the nickname "Eight" for apparently being the eighth son, back where he comes from. Most of the crew are rather shocked at the idea that so many children could survive the dangerous passage to adulthood. And so, "Eight" he becomes.

Eight jokes that his father had been _attempting_ to purchase him a commission with the Navy, that _this_ wasn't exactly what the man had in mind. "Still," he says, "it's sailing, at any rate, which ought to make them happy enough."

He is undoubtedly posh, his accent clear and elegant—in fact, he reminds Charley quite a bit of herself when she first started out. But for all his soft hands and too-eager smile, he seems quite willing to learn.

Though, not from Jack.

That is a matter of some amusement to all: Jack, who has often been their ambassador—Jack, who is known for being unabashedly friendly, even flirtatious, with all he meets—is not at all well-liked by their new crewmember.

Instead, John seems to attach himself to Rose.

At first, both Charley and Rose are rather suspicious of this. But Rose warms to him in time, using all her experience as First Mate to turn him into a useful part of the crew.

She teaches him to read her maps, and he takes to it like a fish to water, diving in with all of his substantial enthusiasm. He is not so skilled at navigation as she, but his knowledge of the world is fascinatingly encyclopedic. He seems to know everything about lands they've never even seen—plants and animals, myths and constellations, history and art and music and the sciences. He happily helps Rose fill in the empty spots of her map, and then he goes a step further: he _populates_ that map, filling it with fascinating people and delicious food and political intrigue and thrilling adventures.

Spellbound, the crew inevitably begins to gather while he weaves his stories, and Rose sits at his side, her smile wide and white in the lamplight. She leans toward him as a moth might approach a flame: with unguarded fascination. Her innocent attention is lovely to behold.

Charley thinks his tales are mostly, if not entirely, nonsense. But still, she watches. And listens.

-

"You like him," Rose teases, this time running her hands through her wife's close-cropped hair, her fingertips raking over her scalp. Charley shivers under her ministrations, and then settles against her. "You act as if you don't, but I know you better than that."

"He's a hard worker," Charley admits. "And he's kept the crew so entertained they've hardly had a spare moment to grow bored. But," and she rolls over suddenly, arms reaching out to pin Rose’s hands to the pillows, "—he's ridiculous, Rose. Utterly ridiculous."

Beneath her, she can feel her wife's ribs twitching with the effort not to laugh. But Rose's eyes are assured, almost serious, as she says, "You _like_ him."

And Charley, God help her, does not deny it.

-

The first time he's hurt in a skirmish, Martha comes to her cabin after she's done binding his wounds, the beautiful young woman’s face pinched with exhaustion.

She had wanted to be a doctor, back in her own land, and she'd read every book she could get her hands on—but she'd only ever been permitted to practice aboard this vessel. Elsewhere, women were not so readily accepted in that particular profession, no matter how capable.

Martha has plenty of experience patching them all up, Charley tells herself; there is no special cause for worry.

Still, Charley's fingers knot together like the ropes overhead.

She's seen to her own wounds—mostly nicks and scrapes—and she is tired, but she still follows Martha to their makeshift sickbay, where Eight rests on a cot. And Rose sits beside him, her hand smoothing back his hair.

Her wife looks as if she's walking a narrow ridge between concern and contentment. When Charley enters, she looks up and a smile flashes over her face. "There now, Eight," Rose says, her voice teasing, "you can stop your moaning—she's come to see you."

The patient—who looks alarmingly pale, as if he's lost a lot of blood—gives another halfhearted moan, though this sounds _nearly_ like a noise of mortification. This is confirmed when Rose giggles. "He was worried," she explains, "that you'd be angry about having to drag his miserable hide back aboard."

Charley arches a brow at him, as if to ask, _Is this true?_

"Evenin', Captain," Eight greets, his speech oddly slurred; she wonders if Martha had to use an awful lot of rum to sedate him. "Hate t' call your wife a liar—"

"Then you'd best watch your tongue." Charley offers him a wry grin, which is met with a more sheepish smile of his own.

"I want'd to thank you for saving my—'s Rose so… so _el'quently_ put it— _mis'rable hide_." Once again, she is caught off guard by the glint in his eyes, as if he contains a carefully-cloaked light constantly threatening to spill outward. Even when he isn't fully aware of himself, he seems to glow with it.

_It was nothing,_ she wants to say. Same thing she'd do for any of her crew that needed help. But it wasn't exactly that.

The worry she'd felt when his head had lolled against his shoulder, his legs sagging under his own weight—she'd found herself wondering what she'd tell Rose. What she'd do with her evenings if he wasn't hanging about with his ridiculous stories. She'd found herself mumbling to him as they staggered across the ship: _Stay with me, John. Stay awake. Stay with me._

Charley blinks, and she sees that Rose is hiding a smile behind her hand.

"You can thank me by getting better with a blade," she says coolly, gesturing to the cutlass that hangs from her own hip. "I will train you. Or Rose will, she's nearly as good as I am."

"Nearly?" Rose cries in mock-protest. But it is just that: mock. They know who, of the two of them, is the fighter. Who had used her fists and fury to escape her old life, who had forged a new path with the business end of her blade. Rose is familiar with her wife’s fierceness.

Charley’s answering smile is fond. " _Very_ nearly."

Her wife seems content with that. And as Rose brushes his damp hair away from his face, Charley sees that John looks equally content. Lethargic, even, like he is nearing sleep. His eyelids flutter, his long sooty lashes fanning out against the bruises under his eyes."Thank y'. I'd like that, Charley—I mean, Cap'n, sir."

She just shakes her head, wondering how she came to allow such impertinence aboard her ship. "You're welcome, John."

-

That night, she and Rose struggle to sleep.

Charley wonders if they are both thinking the same thing—about how wrong it would've felt to lose him, to suddenly be without their strange, soft-spoken nobleman who had turned out to be such an excellent pirate.

And an excellent friend.

The uneasy, churning sea is not the only thing which tosses and turns that night.

-

After that, John is somehow both closer and further away than ever.

He makes a good student, and his enthusiasm to learn the finer points of swordplay is more than enough to attract other students—the quiet C'Rizz, who usually prefers his musket; Jabe, with her long, graceful limbs, who treats battle like a beautiful dance; Amelia, who is young, fiery, and in need of guidance. More and more, they gather to her: misfits she has found herself collecting but never truly _knowing_ before.

She feels like one of them, even as she stands at the fore and commands their movements.

They all gather together to listen to their Captain as she teaches, and Charley finds herself looking forward to the opportunity to make their crew even stronger—their trust in her, in themselves, and in one another _even stronger_. At the very back, Rose follows her drills with a smile, occasionally weaving through the gathered to correct someone's form or stop them from injuring themselves. Often both.

She watches as her wife corrects Eight's grip, her small fingers forming around his. She watches the hitch in his breathing, and the way his eyes skitter toward _her,_ almost as if he's nervous. She finds her own lips to be stretched, her smile broad. And she laughs when she taunts Rose that night and her beloved First Mate blushes like her namesake. “I believe he wants more from you than simple swordplay,” she laughs, and Rose bats at her head, but she does not mean it.

The lessons are not always such a pleasure, and her crew is not always so disciplined. Often, she wonders if these new skills will really serve anyone in the heat of conflict. And someone nearly always gets a cut or a bruise throughout the course of the training, but—

Charley is happy.

-

One night, there is a faint knock on her door, and when she answers, he is there. Shivering in his shirtsleeves, the late night mist swirling around him. He's paler than a ghost in the moonlight, and his expression is just as haunting. Thoughtful, as if he wants to say something but isn't sure he should. And he looks—

Uncommonly beautiful.

"Who is it, love?" Rose's voice drifts over her shoulder, and it's amusing how quickly his cheeks start to color before her eyes.

"One guess."

Rose is silent for a long moment. "Well, are you going to let him in, or do you intend for him to stand there all night?"

A smile traces John's lips, lifting the edges for a moment before releasing them. The lines at the corners of his mouth are severe, tense. He is _nervous._ When he looks at her, his eyes seem to drag her in like a whirlpool.

Charley's brow arches as she tries to extracts herself—fails to extract herself. He doesn’t look away. "I was considering it,” she lies.

"No, you weren't," Rose laughs.

The sound drains the tension out of Charley's posture, the arm which had protectively shielded the doorway falling. It has much the same effect on him: his mouth softens.

Rose, her tone rich with amusement, says, "Let him in."

And she does.


	50. this fruit I coveted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "Ok so, all your fabulous fics have sent my mind strait to the gutter and my disgustingly dirty mind threw this at me (no pressure to use it, but feel free to if the inspiration strikes :)) Ten x Rose: "Who knew eating a banana could be so sexually arousing?" In which the Doctor loses control of his carefully hidden sexual attraction to Rose after watching her torture him by eating a banana in a very provocative manner, (and seriously the things she's doing with her tongue should be illegal!)"  
> Pairing: Ten x Rose
> 
> note: the title comes from the poem "this fruit" by marjorie allen seiffert.

It started with the strawberries.

Or, at least, he _thinks_ that's where it began, though it's hard to be sure. Rose has always had something of an overblown reaction to the foods she finds appealing. Even that very first time he'd watched her eat chips, he'd been aware of it: her hums of appreciation; eyes fluttering back in her head like she was totally undone by the simple, timeless combination of potatoes and salt and oil; wistfully licking her fingers at the end, like she almost couldn't bear for the experience to be over.

Rose is a sensualist, the sort who adores creature comforts and simple indulgence. He could put it down to her upbringing being somewhat devoid of luxury, or the "Taurus sun" she's always on about, or merely her oh-so-human nature—but at this particular moment, he can't really excuse her actions away with such easy, uncomplicated motives.

Because two weeks ago, it was the carton of strawberries she simply _had to have_ from the Nue Pennsylvania Market on Earth 4. She'd eaten them slowly, held them between thumb and forefinger, pink lips wrapping around red fruit. One at a time. Savored. And she'd looked at him.

Last week, it was a sticky-ripe mango picked from a tree in Bangladesh, juice slipping down her bare wrists in the gathering humidity. She'd peeled away the skin and offered it to him on outstretched fingers, and they'd shared it in the shade, eating it down to the pit. And she'd _looked_ at him.

And then, three days ago, it was the choco-figs—a parting gift from a rebel gardener who had generously housed them on Chimeria. Soft, purple-black skins bitten open, revealing the seedy, complicated, pretty pink insides, shot through with rivulets of liquid cacao. She'd sighed with pleasure as she ate one, leaving another half-eaten on a plate. Dripping. And she'd _looked at him._

But today, it's gone beyond that. Beyond the earnest, ruby-red berries and sultry mango slices and chocolate smudges on her lips. Today, Rose is eating—

A banana.

And he thinks it might be the death of him.

She sits in the console room, lounging in the jump seat with her legs thrown over the armrest, her bare feet kicking to the rhythm of the song on the jukebox—she'd found the bloody thing and dragged it out of storage, much to his chagrin—while she flips through a tatty old vintage magazine from Padrivole Regency 9. Her hair is pulled up and back, which gives him a rather distracting view of her jaw working as she takes delicate, inattentive nibbles of banana.

When she isn't whittling away at the fruit—and his sanity—it simply rests against her lips as her eyes ravenously scan the page. It doesn't break contact. Petal pink against pale yellow. Every now and again, she glances up at him and asks if he's ever heard of some fashion brand or another, some sex position to be done by creatures with no less than seven legs, some odd gadget to make one's hair stand on end. And every now and then, her warm, honey brown eyes light up with interest and attentiveness, and she _looks at him._

He doesn't have words for this look; he only knows that she seems to wear it when she is doing those torturous things with her mouth. And he starts to wonder if it's possible, perhaps, that she has developed some sort of oral fixation, or forged an intrusive psychological connection between _her_ fruit consumption and the pleasure centers of _his_ bloody brain.

He doesn't realize that he's staring until Rose tilts her head and pulls the banana from her lips. "Doctor? You all right?"

He isn't. He is _far_ from all right. His temperature is up, his heart rate speeding along a few ticks faster than normal, and he feels an odd, almost unbearable _flushing_ sort of sensation all over, making his limbs feel fidgety and intolerably heavy all at once.

"Rose, are you on a diet?"

Her eyes narrow. " _What?_ "

"No," he hurries to say. _Getting off to a smashing start._ He tries not to clear his throat because she says it makes him sound nervous, but he doesn't quite succeed, making a noise that sounds like a cat coughing whilst being strangled. "Not that you should be—I mean, is there a reason for the—for why you're eating so much fruit?"

Across the room, she is looking at him like he is completely mental. "Fruit?"

"Yes, fruit!" Eager to have data to offer, he recites back a comprehensive list of every bite of fruit she's eaten in the past few weeks, and it turns out there's more than he'd initially thought.

The pomegranate nibs they'd picked up from Tesco, because she'd never gotten to try them before. They'd glistened like murky rubies in her palm.

The oranges she'd plucked from a bowl on the table, origins unknown, making her hands smell like sweet citrus for hours after.

The frozen sweet cherries, dark and hard and melting slowly in her mouth, staining her tongue a deep burgundy, darker than blood—

"Oh my god _,_ " she interrupts, hand flying up to cover her mouth. That is, the hand that isn't holding the half eaten banana, which still taunts him from her small fist. "So you _did_ notice!"

 _Aha!_ He most certainly did! He can feel a sense of triumph already, but it's rather sharply undercut by the realisation that he doesn't know _what_ it is he's supposed to have noticed. Not in any concrete, data-driven sense. As it is, the only thing he _does_ know is that she's been eating an awful lot of fruit.

She is shaking her head at him, a faint smile curving her lips. "I can't _believe_ I never thought of a banana. It's so… you."

"What is?" he asks, eager to understand whatever it is he's missing. It's not often that Rose pulls one over on him. And he _is_ rather partial to bananas.

Something about her shifts, then. Rose sits straighter, primly perched on the edge of her seat. Setting the magazine aside, she gives her full concentration to the act of—

He would blush, really, were he willing to give his blood vessels free reign—

That is to say, she looks quite a lot like she's—

Slowly, intentionally sliding the banana between her lips.

She does not do what she was doing before: this is no orderly, absentminded attempt at eating. Instead of taking a bite, she hollows her cheeks around it, almost sucking, which doesn't make sense, it can't be an _effective_ method of banana consumption, but it certainly does keep his attention. It summons up several rather inspiring ideas that he hasn't dusted off in quite some time.

And while she does it, she _looks at him._

He swallows. "Yes," he offers, trying his best to sound normal. "I have noticed you… doing that."

Rose's head cocks, blonde ponytail swishing behind her, but that isn't what keeps his attention. His eyes—his senses—his very being is totally and entirely focused on the hollow of her cheek, which is currently formed around the tip of the banana. It pushes out against the fragile membrane, and when she shifts the banana on her tongue, her _cheek_ moves, too. It's—

Frankly, it's obscene looking. Almost too visceral for him to get a proper grip on. Surely she is _aware_ of what that looks like—of the image she is evoking.

There is a noise in the room. It's only after several seconds have passed that he realizes his mouth is open and that it came from him. Rose smiles as she slowly withdraws the banana from her mouth, the darker inner skin of her lips dragging over the pale fruit, glistening.

"I knew it," she laughs. Her voice is just the slightest touch raw, and more than a little victorious. "It was just a matter of finding the right food."

He doesn't say anything. Mostly because he is not _capable_ of saying anything.

Rose is beaming now, looking as pleased as he's ever seen her. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, but even that lovely, familiar hue isn't enough to wipe away the crude image of her subtly-stretched skin that lingers like a haze over his eyes.

"Now," she says, "should I keep practicing on the banana? Or would you like to come sit over here and let me try it on you?"

And really, he thinks as he hauls himself to his feet, there's only one answer to that question.


	51. To follow everywhere it's taking me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "I heard 'Someone's Watching Over Me' by Hillary Duff (Raise Your Voice, 2004) & immediately my mind went 'That's Rose fighting to get the dimension canon project running & as she takes her first few jumps, & as she gets to a universe that's her worst nightmare come true & the Doctor had died without regenerating, & as she finally find him, the right him.. and.. and...' so yeah, had to share it."  
> Pairing: Tentoo x Rose

She has a notebook—from that time. Pink, faux-leather, with a button closure. A gift from Pete, and a gentle reminder that her memories of the Doctor were all she’d _really_ brought with her into this strange world, and she shouldn’t lose them.

Back then, she’d kept it for purely academic purposes, carrying it with her on jumps and jamming it full of otherworldly scraps: a wrapper for a kind of banana candy that he probably would’ve loved; a flyer for a missing man that seemed suspicious at the time; ticket stubs left on someone’s side table, for a play called “The Big Bad Wolf and Other Stories.”

She’d thought of them as clues. Or, perhaps as living anthropology.

Really, she’d been looking for meaning—for a narrative, woven through all of those many worlds.

But in the end, her jumps hadn’t contained anything like a story. There was no message written in the falling skies, and the worlds she found were just places for her to search, and to study, and to save.

The notebook became a diary, the narrative within merely her own: one side of a love story.

-

He doesn’t find it until a few months later, when they’re moving out of Pete’s mansion and into a—much smaller—flat of their very own.

It’s a studio, mostly just four walls and a bathroom that’s practically a cupboard, but it’s close to Torchwood so they can walk to work, and it’s _theirs._ Rose is already more comfortable there, too. Even those years on the TARDIS couldn’t get her used to expansive spaces; she prefers to be tucked in, her belongings nestled together like old friends.

He is putting books on a shelf when he comes across it, a grimy pink-ish thing, with fuzzy, worn edges and its strap buckling with the effort of containing so many extra pieces of paper and plastic. “Rose,” he starts, flipping it open to the first page. “Is this yours?”

When she peers over his shoulder, her face goes pale. “Oh. Yeah.” And then she nuzzles her cheek into his shirt, as if that will help her hide the words written unmistakably on the page, under the printed header of _JOURNAL._

_Operation Bad Wolf,_ in her own handwriting.

“Can I?” he asks, soft in that way he has that he didn’t used to have. In him, there is tenderness finally given voice. And he pauses, waiting for her answer—for her permission.

She could almost laugh; the pages that follow are decidedly unscientific. They are mostly desperate grasping, and lovelorn musing, and there’s a fair bit of spiraling, too. Intentions, wishes, hopes. Data points that correlated to nothing. But instead of tearing the notebook from his hands, she nods, nuzzling further so he has no choice but to shift that arm and wrap it around her. He tucks her into his side like one of the many books settled on their shelves.

Everything in its place.

-

Later, as she pours the wine, he tells her about the journal he’d kept as a human—similar, in many ways, to her own. An attempt at capturing a story that was far from finished. He laughs over his choice of title: “ _A Journal of Impossible Things,_ I called it. But it was really just one side of a love story.”

The words stop her flat, her hands wringing against a tea towel. Had she ever written that down? Or was it just a thought, paralleled?

“If only I’d known,” he muses, “that the girl whose face was all over my dreams, all over the pages—she was _real_ and _alive..._ ”

He is shaking his head in something like wistful amusement, hair falling down around his ears from where it’s grown too long. Maybe he’s mourning the wasted time. The pain they’d both suffered and committed to paper, in hopes of making it all make sense. _Maybe,_ she thinks, there _had_ been some greater story, written across the stars—tethering them to one another, and pulling her through world after world until she found him again.

The room has fallen silent.

And then, he says, “I never would’ve stopped looking for her.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees how his chin drops and tucks. The knife in his hand resumes its rhythmic chopping, preparing the dinner they will share. Together, at their own table. She knows him well enough to know he’s blushing, and it fills her with this indescribable feeling—incandescent and overflowing.

“Lucky for you, you didn’t have to.” She grins as she shifts around him, nudging him with her hip. “She was looking for you.”


	52. Hands Are Tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: paigenotblank  
> Prompt: "Martin x Rose - Rose never met the doctor, quit henriks and worked her way up through the ranks at a nice restaurant. one day going over the schedule, she notices there’s just some GUY down in the cloakroom who she didn’t realize even actually existed until she messes with his job/hours and he emerges like a grumpy, bat from a cave. shenanigans commence."  
> Pairing: Martin Lamb x Rose Tyler (Teninch)
> 
> _this is a bit of a funny one, folks. just a touch adult. also, i would like to make the disclaimer that i don't really advocate for doing what martin and rose do in this fic. rose is his boss, and that puts them in an unbalanced situation. (totally unrelated, but... if you're interested in restaurant culture and want to know why dating your co-workers is generally a crap idea, you might enjoy the novel "sweetbitter" by stephanie danler.)_
> 
> _that said, enjoy!_

Quite unusually, the restaurant is slow one snowy Sunday night—which means Rose has the time to sit at her desk, and look over her pile of paperwork, and notice something she's never noticed before.

Obviously, she decides to investigate.

"Clara," she says, sliding onto one of the barstools and knocking a knuckle against the wood. She doesn't normally do things like this during operational hours—it doesn't look good to have management loitering about the place, drinking all the good wine. But there's no one else at the bar to see. No one except Clara, who glances up from where she's polishing a bottle with a surprised look.

"Oh, hey, babe. What's up?"

"Who the fuck is Martin?" Rose asks, getting right to it, because she's ravenously curious as to how an _entire person_ escaped her notice for her whole first two months as manager.

To her surprise, Clara snorts inelegantly. "You mean you haven't met him yet?"

"Obviously not," Rose laughs, shaking her head incredulously. "That's why I'm asking. How have I _never_ seen him before? I saw his name on the schedule and I realized—I have no idea who the hell that is."

The brown-eyed bartender only looks more amused by her boss's confusion, and while Rose doesn't like feeling off-kilter this way—she's gotten where she is by knowing things, remembering things, caring about things—she just waits for an answer.

"He's the cloakroom attendant," Clara finally says, setting aside the shiny bourbon bottle. "Downstairs, you know, under the staircase? Sort of a scary bloke. Doesn't like people—like, fucking _loathes_ them—though he went through this period a few months ago where he wasn't so bad. Even covered a few shifts up here, I heard, as the _maître d’_."

"Right." But Rose is still mystified.

Luckily, Clara is feeling chatty tonight. "I guess they keep him around because he's got sort of a prodigious memory? Never forgets a coat—doesn't even need the tickets, really." She speaks of him with a vague, hesitant sort of awe, as if she's speaking about a mythical creature instead of a proper person. "But he can be _really_ grumpy if you hang about and bother him, or so I've been warned—only seen him once, back when you were still working in the kitchen."

"And?"

She shrugs, turning to take down another bottle for polishing. "And _nothing_. I gave him plenty of space."

"Right. Well, I guess I ought to introduce myself, then," Rose says with an air of finality. She nods and stands to go, but not before reaching across the bar to squeeze her friend's hand—she owes Clara so much more than just her job here. "Thanks, Ossy."

"Any time, babe. But—wait." To her surprise, cool-headed Clara seems to struggle for words, her expression a cross between nervousness and repressed humour. "Just—Rose, be prepared, when you go. He's, er…"

"Grumpy, I know."

"No," Clara shakes her head, "he's, like—ah, he's got sort of a—"

"Just spit it out, Clara."

"Try not to stare, okay? That's all." And she says it so seriously that Rose feels the amused grin slip off her face.

"At what?"

Clara presses her lips together and Rose feels an odd sort of suspense.

"His trousers."

-

His _what?_

She's still pondering her friend's cryptic warning as she heads down the stairs ten minutes later, flat shoes soundless against the rich carpet. There's so much to unpack here. Why would she be looking at his trousers in the first place? What would she see there to make her stare?

It occurs to her that Clara _might_ be taking the piss, which is fine and good—they've been friends far longer than they've had any sort of working relationship—but she decides to be careful anyway, and keep her eyes firmly above the beltline. Whatever he's got going on in his trousers, she doesn't need to know.

Doesn't _want_ to know.

Rose is practicing Not Looking At Things with such intensity that she nearly walks right by the cloakroom—though it would be easy enough to do, even without the distractions. It's closed up tight.

She has a key, of course, but she really has no interest in just a room full of coats.

Perhaps, she reasons, he's gone home early tonight. It would make sense; he'd probably not had anyone down in hours. Or maybe he'd seen the weather report and left, trying to beat the snow. Still, wouldn't he need to _tell_ someone—that someone being _her,_ the manager, she reminds herself—if he'd left?

_Maybe he's just gone to the loo._

Rather than hanging around like a limpet, Rose turns on the locked door and heads back upstairs, determined to find something else to occupy her evening. She's got some requests for shift changes—that'll be plenty distracting, _and_ take all evening. Why does _nobody_ want to work on Thursdays?

To her surprise, Rose feels a small sense of disappointment as she ascends the staircase, the all-but-empty restaurant spread out in front of her.

Apparently, she's just not destined to meet the curious creature who haunts the cloakroom. Not tonight, anyway.

She doesn’t hear the sudden rustle in the cloakroom—by then, she’s too far away.

-

On Thursday, her mystery is solved—though not by any real effort on her part.

In fact, she's so busy that she doesn't have time to think about the mysterious Martin, or even appreciate how well the night is going. There had been a shuffling of schedules, yes, but everyone seemed moderately content, in the end. At least, she's received no complaints.

But then, a man appears in her doorway.

"Excuse me," he says. Tall, lanky, and too-thin, he steps into her office and looms over her desk with the lack of grace that can only come from someone used to hunching through doors and making himself smaller. Behind thick-rimmed glasses sparkle brown eyes, the same warm color as the shock of hair atop his head. And she notes all of this because he is _completely_ unfamiliar to her.

"Yes?"

But he's wearing the standard uniform—white button-down, sport coat, black trousers—so he must work here. He doesn't move from his hovery stance over her desk. "You changed my schedule."

"I'm sure I did. I had to make some adjustments—so many requests for time off. You know how the holidays are." She finishes with what she _hopes_ is an apologetic smile, but she isn't sure, because she is suddenly distracted by—

_His trousers._

Clara's voice rings in her head. _Try not to stare._

She drags her eyes away from the article of clothing in question— _oh my god, this is so unprofessional_ —and back up to his face. Dappled in freckles, it looks younger than his body language and dour expression suggest. Rose clears her throat.

"You must be Martin." _I know this because of your—_

"Yes, and you changed my schedule." He says this like she's committed a crime, words increasing in venom as he goes on. "You have me working upstairs _two days_ next week."

"Well, I'm sorry if that's inconvenient—"

"It is." His hands tighten into fists at his side; she can see his white knuckles not-quite-touching her desk. But then, he exhales, long and slow—catching himself, almost—and his voice cools. "Is there... a way for me to switch?"

For a moment, Rose feels an unexpected throb of sympathy for the man. He's clearly not at ease with her—perhaps not with people in general. "I'm so sorry, Martin. We've got several large parties booked and we're understaffed. My hands are tied."

Directly in her line of sight, he twitches, his eyes dropping down to her hands—they’re folded atop the desk. His thighs bump against a stack of papers, one of them sliding down in front of her. And then, with one brusque nod, he turns and leaves the office.

-

She catches Clara after closing, snagging her arm and pulling her back into the kitchen.

"Ossy, what the _fuck?_ "

And her friend—after a moment of confusion, taking in Rose’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks—bursts into uncontrollable giggles. “I warned you!”

"And Scottish, too!"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Rose stops short. "I've got no idea."

In the technical sense, Clara _had_ warned her, but somehow, Rose still feels completely caught off-guard by the actual reality of Martin and his rancor—which, it seemed, he had carefully restrained for her benefit—and also… well, by his trousers. She knows intellectually that even being _aware_ of that tiny little detail is grounds for a human resources nightmare, and it’s completely unethical for her to notice or care, but she can’t help the way her mouth goes a little dry at even the _memory_ of his—

“Rose? Babe? Earth to Rose!” Clara, still laughing, waves a hand in front of her glazed eyes. “It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Rose groans, hands flying up to cover her face. “I can’t talk about this. I can’t even _think_ about this—it’s probably against some rule in the employee handbook. _Several_ rules, even.”

“Probably,” Clara agrees cheerfully. “So, don’t think about it.”

But that’s far easier said than done.

-

She carefully monitors the first shift Martin works upstairs. The staff seem a little spooked about having to work with him, and she’s fully expecting complaints, but she’s surprised when there’s only some slight grumbling. And none of the customers seem bothered either; in fact, several of them—ladies mostly—seem quite charmed by his stuttery addresses. And, probably, by the view he provides.

It isn’t until near the end of the evening that Rose realizes she hasn’t been nearly as subtle as she’s imagined. “So,” Martin mutters, right as she’s walking past the hostess station. “Are you satisfied?”

Rose blinks. Stops in her tracks. “Pardon?”

“Satisfied that I’m not going to shout at anyone,” he says, sounding just this side of amused. He seems surprisingly collected, given all she's heard about him and his unholy temper; maybe, she thinks, people had him all wrong.

"Very," she answers with a smile. "You're good up here. Customers seem to like you."

To her immense pleasure, Martin blushes at the compliment. It's fascinating—more than just his cheeks go pink: it spreads down the tips of his ears and a trail down his neck, like heat is slipping beneath his collar and running all through him. It makes her want to give him another compliment, but—she stops herself, for the sake of professionalism.

"Do you really mind it so much?" she asks. "I know you're usually tied up in the cloakroom—"

He looks up at her suddenly, eyes widening fractionally behind his glasses. Once again, he sort of twitches a little. He really is a jumpy bloke, she muses.

"—but you seem to be doing just fine topside."

"I hate it," he answers honestly. "People looking at me—it makes me… uncomfortable." He stares down at his feet for a moment, and she suddenly feels even _more_ guilty than before: not only for watching him all night, but for eyeing him so overtly when she'd met him the first time.

But she can only apologize for one of those things. "God, I'm sorry," she sighs. "I must've had you on edge all night, then."

At that, Martin looks up again. Cocks his head. "No," he answers, as if the thought is coming to him for the very first time. "No, you didn't."

Rose doesn't know what to say—only, she realizes, she's giving sort of a shy smile. One she has to cut off immediately lest he misread her intent.

Her intent is to be professional. And nothing else.

-

The second shift, Rose tries to let him be. And the third, which is an accident. And the fourth, a week after Christmas, when she's short-staffed and calls him up from the cloakroom.

Sure, she snaps a bit when two of the servers start glancing at him, tittering between themselves at a volume that's just high enough to be irritating. And she makes the occasional— _very_ occasional—excuse to walk through the front of the restaurant. But the rest of the time, for weeks, she leaves him alone.

Because she's becoming increasingly uncomfortable with her own level of attraction to the grumpy, speccy man—with his unnerving straightforwardness and his determination to be polite, even though he clearly loathes the effort. His small, tentative smiles and furrowed brows.

She _can't_ like him. It's absurd. And unethical.

Which means when he comes to her office at the end of shift, late into the January night, she is completely unprepared. He stands in the doorway, his head ducked just a bit, and the low light of her lamp reflects off of his glasses.

"Well?"

Rose clears her throat, putting aside the open file she'd been perusing. "Hello, Martin."

"Rose," he greets. She starts at the way he says her name—obviously, she's never heard him say it before—but there's a sense of heat to it that makes her heart give an uneven thump. "Did I do something?"

"What do you mean?"

"To make you," he winces, "avoid me."

" _What?_ " Alarmed, she shakes her head. "No, of _course_ not. You've done a great job on the floor, and I really appreciate you picking up so much slack. I promise I'll get you back down to the cloakroom soon," she offers apologetically. "I just don't want to…"

She has to choose her words carefully.

"Disrupt you."

"Okay," he says, exhaling heavily. She becomes aware of how tense his muscles had been only after he seems to release, slumping a little in front of her desk. "That's good. Sometimes, I know, I can be…"

Now it is his turn to search for a word. He wiggles his head thoughtfully, back and forth.

"Too much for people. And so they, er—leave."

There's so much meaning layered into his words: unidentifiable, but undeniably there. Something that makes him cringe and stumble, and that makes Rose want to reach out across the table between them and take his hand in hers. Her knuckles tighten around one another, her hands remaining primly folded on her desk.

"Well, you're not too much," she tosses out. "In fact, I think you're just enough." His eyes on her are a sudden, sharp reminder of where—who—they are and why this turn in the conversation isn't appropriate. "For the restaurant," she corrects, swallowing. "You are—good enough. At your job."

Once again, Martin's head tilts unnervingly. "Thank you."

"And, I'm sure—as a person, too."

A minute look of disbelief flickers across his face, arching a brow and narrowing his eyes. And then, more slowly: "Thank you."

There is a rattle as a trolley with clean cutlery rolls by—it makes Rose jolt. But Martin barely seems to notice it; his eyes are intent on her, his brows low and furrowed behind his specs. "Would you like to go to dinner?" he asks, rather abruptly. "Not here. Somewhere else."

"Martin, I'm your boss—that wouldn't be… ethical." She sounds apologetic. She _is_ apologetic, and as she strains forward over the table, leaning on her elbows, she wills him to understand. _I would. I would, I would, you strange man._

"Ah." Once again, the sagging shoulders—the mild, pained expression. But he seems used to rejection. Or as if he'd anticipated it, in response to this particular question. He gives a short nod. "All right, then." And then he turns to leave, and Rose’s heart gives an odd little pang.

"But if—" she starts.

Freezing, Martin looks back at her.

"If we don't—if we keep it a secret," she says, her tongue heavy in her mouth. _This is a bad idea,_ she thinks absently. But something fluttery in her belly says otherwise—that this might, in fact, be the _best_ idea. "And if you're comfortable with that, of course. I don't want to pressure you."

Distantly amused, but largely with a tone of confusion, he says, "I'm the one who asked."

"I know," Rose replies earnestly. "But you were asking for a date—plain, straightforward. What I'm suggesting is… different."

Martin's lips curl, just a little. They hitch unevenly, higher on the right side. It's a surprisingly stunning expression on his face—bright, interested. "I like different," he says.

She tries not to grin. But she can't help it. "Okay, then. We have a date."

-

A few months on, Rose receives a phone call. It's from work—of _course,_ when isn't it work? She's taken the night off, but that means less than nothing; the level of responsibility she holds at the restaurant means that she's never _really_ off duty. Once upon a time, she might've resented that.

But lately, she's come to love feeling needed.

"Hello, Rose speaking," she answers, endeavoring to sound professional—despite the circumstances.

"Oh, thank _God_." It's Clara on the line, her voice a strained shrill. "Heather called in sick tonight and now we're short a server. I checked your files—sorry, by the way—and got Martin's number, thinking we could swap him in for Sam, and then Sam could do service. But he's not answering his phone," Clara gripes. "Wanker."

A few inches away, Martin arches his eyebrows. Rose stifles the urge to laugh as Clara rolls on.

"I tried not to call, babe, I really did—"

"It's fine, Ossy," she clucks in reassurance. She loves her friend, but she's honestly rubbish in a crisis. "Try pulling Jake out of the kitchen—I've been meaning to get him started serving, and I'm sure he can learn on the fly. He's a clever bloke, and he’s been bussing for ages."

Martin pinches her thigh; it seems he takes offense to Rose doling out any unnecessary compliments. She bites her tongue to stop from smiling.

"Right. And who's going to train him?"

"You, of course. You were a server once," Rose teases. "Unless you've forgotten how. Leave the bar for a few minutes and get him brushed up on the basics."

"Can't you come in and do it?" Clara pleads, her tone dangerously bordering on whinging. But Rose just chuckles and shakes her head, even though her friend isn't there to see it.

"Sorry, babe," she says. She doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. "I just can't tonight. My hands are tied."

"Oh, fine, but you—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rose laughs. "I owe you. Bye, Ossy!"

And then, before the other girl can make her farewells, the call comes to an end as Martin pulls the phone away from her ear. She hears the faint beep of the line going dead.

"That was rude," Rose points out, but the effect of her scolding gets lost in the spreading of her smile.

"Well, you know me: rude, wanker, all that." Shrugging, Martin stretches across her and sets her phone on the nightstand—safely out of reach. Not that she can reach anything, really. His bare chest is all she sees for a moment as he plugs her phone back in, and then he leans back, propped on his knees.

Rose wriggles her hands in the restraints above her head, letting her fingers fumble worthlessly at the layered, indecipherable knots. At least she can grip the rungs of the headboard, she thinks pleasantly.

"Very rude," she agrees. "Complete wanker." She bites her lip, wiggles her hips. " _Speaking_ of wanking—"

"Right." Martin looks her over seriously—as he usually is when it comes to this sort of thing. So careful. He fusses with the knots around her wrists, testing their tightness. When he has deemed them safe, he looks over her body, stretched out over the bed, with a look like pride.

Smiling a little to himself, he leans down close to her ear. She can feel the bristle of his five o'clock shadow against the side of her face, and Rose shivers. "Where were we?" he asks.

Breathlessly, she whispers back, "I believe I was caught in your web."

And then she smiles, because—it's just so wonderfully true.


	53. Miles to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by: Anonymous  
> Prompt: "rose meeting clasic who doctors when she knows fully well who she keeps running into but the doctor has no clue who she is. Tho to maintain timelines she tries her best to keep her name and all info she knows on the down low"  
> Pairing: Doctor x Rose
> 
> _note: well, friends, we've come to the end of 2020 and to the end of my prompts series. thank you all for sending in submissions, reading, cheering me on, and just generally giving me something to think about other than the world falling apart. i wish you all a very happy new year, and hope that 2021 brings you health, happiness, peace, and plenty more fics!_

The worst part—aside from the secrecy, and the endless brushes with danger, and the burden of the gun at her back, and the fear that she will someday jump too far—is that sometimes…

He's just a complete arsehole.

-

"No, I insist that you tell me," the Doctor says rather pompously. "I've let this go on long enough and I won't allow it to go any further, you shiftless vagabond. You _must_ tell me who you are if you intend to seek refuge on my ship."

With her back to the door, she can feel the vibration of pulse weapons firing on the wooden shell of the TARDIS. It rattles her ribcage, making her heart beat faster. "I _told_ you! I'm a time traveler," she cries, "just like you!"

Even after all these months, that's all the backstory she's managed to work out, short of lying entirely—something she's not at all comfortable with. (Not with him, at least.)

But the Doctor is unimpressed by her story. With a tight frown, he strides around the console, his coattails fanning out behind him in a technicolor blur, headed for a button that will—she guesses—unlock the ship's doors and send her tumbling out into space.

"If you do that," she shouts, "we'll both die! And you may not understand it now, but we'll take two universes down with us!" _That_ catches his attention, and if she weren't so afraid—and angry, damn him—she'd laugh. "Possibly more," she adds, because it's the truth.

It's not an unintentional slip so much as a judicious offering: _Understand the stakes, Doctor. Understand why I'm here without me saying._

He cocks his curly head, brows heavily furrowed in a familiar way. Considering. Calculating. She decides immediately that this incarnation is dangerous in a way that the others haven't been. Not strictly unkind—but unyielding. Stubborn.

"You're just trying to save your own life."

At that, Rose _does_ laugh, a sound both brutal and brittle. "Oh, yes. That's why I launch myself through time and space, over and over—without a ship—without coordinates—with only myself and my gun." The Doctor sneers at the reminder of the weapon strapped to her back, like a cat threatened with a pail of water. "Because I value my own life _so_ highly."

Glaring, the Doctor fires back. "If you didn't value it, you wouldn't bring the gun."

She remembers, suddenly, that she hasn't saved him with it yet. That's not happened for him. And she feels herself tremblingly split—between the threat of laughter and the threat of tears. She can't explain that she's saved him from annihilation with this very weapon.

That she carries it with her everywhere—sleeps with it by her bedside—because of _him._

-

The first time she meets him out of sequence, the world is burning. Or, at least, it feels that way. The surface of the planet she's landed on is pock-marked by bullets, riddled with brutal craters. She has to pick her way through the rubble to even see him—and at first, she can't tell. If it’s him, or if it’s anyone else who has been through too much, who has lost people, and who carries the same haunted look in his eyes that the Doctor always did.

But, of course, it’s him.

There is a crackle of static coming from some sort of handheld transceiver—it sounds like a distress call—and she can make out one word. Just one. “ _Doctor!_ ”

“You gonna get that?” she asks, not giving herself time to think better of it. His eyes have been so pinned to the burning horizon that it’s clear he hasn’t noticed her, and when he does, he shows no startlement. His eyes slide her way—a pale, piercing blue. They remind her of someone. (They remind her of him.)

“No,” he says flatly.

“Why not?” She steps closer, makes to sit beside him. They’re at the very edge of a sheer rock face, looking down over a valley that eventually turns into a golden, shining city under the fierce red sky. It’s beautiful, in a grim, despairing sort of way. Expansive. She imagines it might be his home world.

“Because it’ll be the end of me.”

Rose’s flinch is instinctual. Somehow, she _hopes_ this isn’t true, but she can’t be sure. It’s not as if she can ask him which body he’s on. _Surely,_ she thinks desperately, _he’d know me if this was after. If this was the end._

And if his world is still in existence...

_This must be before._

Which is a unique sort of torture; she can’t tell him anything that will damage the future. She’s not even sure she can provide him the comfort he so clearly needs.

Her eyes slide over him—over the unkempt, harshly-shorn curls and the battered jacket. He looks as if he’s come a very long way. The only thing she can think to say is a useless platitude, but she says it anyway. “You know, every end is just a new beginning. For Time Lords, at least,” she adds, smiling faintly.

The Doctor finally _looks_ at her, eyes sharp and inquisitive. She can see that he’s trying to work her out—to decide who or _what_ she is. She can’t let him.

Rose reaches over and takes his hand in hers. “I know you hate endings. This will be the worst one, I think,” she admits. “But it’ll get better, after. You won’t be alone.” _It’s a promise,_ she thinks. A vow. She’s always making those, when it comes to him. Commitments.

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something—

But he doesn’t get the chance.

There is a sound like something unzipping, only sharp and popping in her ears like a gunshot. Rose is on her feet in an instant; her Torchwood training kicks in automatically, so quickly that she’d be horrified if she wasn’t entirely focused on the source of the noise: a Dalek.

The metal exterior—the round, golden globes and the rigid panels—reflect the violent light. At the end of the eyestalk, there is a familiar blue glow, changing in time with the Dalek’s enunciations: “ _EX-TER-MI-NA_ —”

Rose fires faster than she’s ever done before, in all of her training sessions at the rifle range. Faster than she’s ever done anything, probably in the whole of her life. Sliding the gun off her back—bracing it against her midsection—pulling the trigger. It’s the work of a moment. And she doesn’t miss. The top blows off the giant pepper pot, leaving behind a steaming heap of molten metal and colorful sparks.

When she turns to the Doctor, she sees that he is unarmed—hands up, as always, in a signal of surrender. He doesn’t seem surprised to see it, exactly. Though his expression is one of resignation, his eyes go wide when he sees what she’s done. They turn on her, sparkling blue and bright.

Another day, she might preen under his attention, but she already knows there’s no time. “This isn’t the end,” she says, unshakeable in her belief.

Rose wonders if she should give him her gun; it’s clear that he needs it more than she does.

She’s actually on the point of sliding the strap over her shoulder when she feels the tug behind her navel. It’s a familiar, sickening sensation, and she doesn’t have time to brace for it—to say goodbye, to wish him luck, to tell him everything she wants to say.

She is already gone.

-

After that, it gets easier to work out which of him is from _before_ her and which of him seem to be coming after. The oldest of him—the man with slicked white hair and a firm frown set upon his face—appears to her a number of times, always on the periphery. She doesn’t speak to him much: only ever a few words in passing. There’s a man who seems nearly as old, only his hair is curled and his accent is rolling, and he always seems to be in a hurry.

But there are versions of him with light in his eyes, and those are the ones she tries to hang on to. The ones that came before the sad man, sitting at the edge of the world.

The man with question marks all over his lapels bumps into her outside a bar and tells her a joke, and she wants so badly to tell him everything. Instead, they save a city together without so much as drawing a weapon. When his companion—a wicked, clever teenager with a patch-covered jacket—asks her to come along, “just for a trip or two,” it takes everything Rose has to refuse.

“You can show me how to use that gun,” the girl says, rather impishly.

“Sorry, I can’t,” she says, and she really means it. “I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

And miles to go before she sleeps.

-

“God, you really _are_ an arsehole!” she shouts. He’s standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the console like he’s got all the time in the world—only she knows he _hasn’t_ got all the time in the world, and that the planet they’re on _will_ be vaporized if they don’t get moving. “So stubborn. Even after all these years, you _refuse_ to listen to me, even when I know something you don’t.”

“If you know something,” he drawls, “perhaps you could just tell me.” There’s a petulant pout about his chin and the edges of his mouth, as if he hadn’t expected her to hold up this long under his scrutiny. She takes a bit of pleasure in that, at least.

“I’m not exactly willing to risk the multiverse to satisfy your curiosity, Doctor.”

“Ah. Pity.”

She’s beginning to think that he _likes_ making her mental.

The smug look on his face takes her back—a matter of months, or years at this point, she can’t tell either way—to a different Doctor. A different face making that same expression.

If she closes her eyes, she can see the self-satisfied half-smile blooming into a wider, more manic grin. Every time her voice had ticked higher, grown louder—every time her expletives got more direct—he would smile _harder_ until she wanted to take that ridiculous scarf around his neck and strangle him with it.

He’d been one of her favourites, in the end.

Like he’d known she needed a good shout, and was more than willing to stand there pleasantly and absorb it. On occasions like that, she could almost forget that she was a stranger to him; it felt like it used to.

Those moments were why, after all this time, she still loved him. The daft alien.

The reminder of which makes her pause, softened a little by the memories of all the times he’s infuriated her and she’s gone on loving him. The Doctor is stubborn, and though he doesn’t remember her in this incarnation—even if she’s _certain_ he’s not the earliest she’s met—she knows she won’t win this argument unless she tries another tactic.

“I’ll tell you something,” she says, urgency making her voice pitchy and tense. “I’ll tell you why I carry this gun if you just—get us _out_ of here.”

Once again, the Doctor’s expression is thoughtful. Calculating. His hand rises to cradle his chin, and she thinks briefly about punching him in the jaw. It _might_ convince him, but there’s an equal chance that she’ll just bruise her knuckles. She’s never punched a Time Lord before and probably shouldn’t start now.

(In four weeks, when she comes through the void and meets a man called Narvin, she will finally punch a Time Lord. One of her knuckles will swell to nearly the size of a £1 coin and turn a faint violet. He will have her thrown in prison, which the Doctor will help her escape.)

Rose is holding her breath. She wonders if he’s really going to let them both die here, atomized and with so much life unlived. It would be just like him; she’s met some versions that were dangerous, devastated enough to do incalculable damage. She’s only managed to stop him in the past by the skin of her teeth, and with the help of other—she thinks, better—companions.

_Come on, you arsehole._

_Take the bait._

He turns his back to her and hits a series of buttons—she can’t tell which, because every console seems different and she can never get the hang of them without the TARDIS’s help. But she feels distinctly that they are moving. The familiar noises of the ship in flight make her feel, abruptly, excited. It’s been so long since she’s had more than a moment in the ship, more than sneaking through or creeping past on her way to somewhere else.

Rose feels the breath leave her lungs, and she smiles. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” the Doctor snarks. “Tell me why you’ve brought this ridiculous weapon onto my ship.”

“I’m thanking you for the sake of the planet,” she shoots back. “It would’ve been blown to bits if we’d stayed any longer. _Thank you,_ ” she reiterates, “for showing a bit of decency.” Rose suppresses a smile when his brow furrows and his glare turns on her. “I carry this gun with me, because someday—I’m not sure when it’ll happen for you—I’ll need it.”

“Oh, that’s no—”

She rolls her eyes. “To save your life. From a Dalek.”

The Doctor pales. “That isn’t—”

“And if I _don’t_ save your life then—and probably a few other times…” Rose pauses, chewing her bottom lip. “I’ll never get to tell you.”

“Tell me _what?_ ” She can’t tell if he’s more interested or exasperated, or perhaps suspicious. His eyes track her as she walks across the console room. She thinks they’re blue, but can’t make them out from this far away. Still, she steps closer.

“That I—”

The tug. The wrench. The sick feeling in her stomach. She wonders if this is some sort of sick, inverted payback for what he hadn’t said on the beach.

And she’s gone again.

-

She lands in the middle of a military base. In a corn field. She lands in Aberdeen, of all places. She lands on distant planets, on parallel earths. She lands a few feet away from the TARDIS, only to find it locked. She lands outside a brick building that seems to be burning down. She lands in the middle of a coliseum. She lands in a graveyard where the earth is being overturned, punched through by metal fists. She lands on a university campus. She lands in a swamp.

Through the years, she gets cleverer. Better at hiding her identity, disguising herself. She tells him to throw that wilted celery out before he attracts grubs. She wonders if she should kiss the man with the bowtie. She is running, always running.

The gun is heavy at her back, and the Doctor always seems to look at it like she’s carrying a festering wound. But she refuses to put it down, because she remembers the man who needed her help.

To be saved from a Dalek, so he could save so many others.

When she lands and the world is ending, there he is. Brown hair, brown suit. He takes off running, but she feels something heavy in her feet. A sense of foreboding, almost.

_To save your life,_ she’d said.

_From a Dalek,_ she’d said.

She almost doesn’t see it coming.

“ _EX-TER_ —”

Rose stops in the street.

She turns, and she shoots.

She hasn’t fired her gun in such a long time that she almost misses—but she doesn’t. The Dalek that would’ve killed the Doctor—perhaps for good—is a smoldering lump of metal and wiring and bitter, withered organic material. Like an eager child, he skids to a halt, his plimsolls slippery in the damp evening, barely inches from her drawn weapon. “You saved my life,” he says. Marveling. Perhaps, she thinks, realizing. “From a Dalek.”

She drops the gun, and it clatters heavily to the ground. Her arms feel light without the weight of it. Rose drags him close, pulling him against her. She feels instinctively that her job is done—that now they can find a way through everything else, _together._

“Yes,” she exhales. “I did. I love you, you _arsehole._ ”


End file.
